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Moore 


GIFT  OF 
Harry  East  Miller 


,i  i  i-i 


a? 


:■ 


By  Leslie  Moore 


The  Peacock  Feather 
The  Jester 


HAD    SHE    DEMANDED    HIS    SOUL   FROM    HIM    AT  THAT   INSTANT     HE 
HAD   GIVEN    IT."  0s  «  *««  ">V> 

Drawn  by  Robert  Edwards. 


THE   JESTER 


BY 


LESLIE    MOORE 


AUTHOR    OF  "THE    PEACOCK    FEATHER,"    ETC. 


»        *       v     n         » 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK    AND    LONDON 

Uhc  Umfcfcerbocfeer  press 
1915 


•  •   ;      ......  c 

:  ...    .  **  :  ;• :  • 

.L^LIJE    MOQRE 


o 


TEbc  ftnicfeerboclser  f>reee,  Hew  Uorfc 


Go 

MRS.   SAMUEL  JORDAN 


M81791 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.    Cap  and  Bells  . 

PAGE 
1 

II. 

The  Fool's  Entry 

19 

III. 

Sweet  Bondage 

•       35 

IV. 

A  Woman's  Will 

.       46 

V. 

Good  Comradeship 

•       54 

VI. 

Balda  the  Witch 

68 

VII. 

Sanctuary  .... 

83 

VIII. 

Council  at  Sangdieu. 

9i 

IX. 

The  Casting  of  the  Net  . 

IOI 

X. 

Withered  Roses. 

in 

XI. 

Outcaste    .... 

124 

XII. 

The  Wanderer  . 

135 

XIII. 

Castle  Syrtes    . 

145 

XIV. 

The  Quest.         . 

160 

XV. 

Simon  of  the  Bees     . 

169 

vu 


Vlll 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVI.  Illusion               .         .         .         .     184 

XVII.  Aphorisms            ....     190 

XVIII.     The  Sage C05 

XIX.  The  Choice         .         .         .         .214 

XX.  Vibrations           ....     229 

XXI.  Moon  Ritual      .         .         .         .239 

XXII.  Devil  Worship  .         .         .         .251 

XXIII.  Abbot  Hilary     .         .         .         .265 

XXIV.  At  Dieuporte     .         .         .         .279 
XXV.  An  Orchard  Egoist    .         .         .287 

XXVI.  Aelred's  Belief          .         .         .297 

XXVII.  The  Recluse      .         .         .         .308 

XXVIII.  In  the  Forest    .         .         .         .323 

XXIX.  Easter  Eve  and  Easter  Morn- 
ing            332 


There  was  a  man  seeking  Peace." 

Fiona  Macleod. 


****** 


The   Jester 


CHAPTER  I, 

CAP  AND  BELLS 


1VIICH0L  the  Jester  having  left  this  world 
*  for,  we  trust,  a  better,  and  thereto  we 
cry  ''God  rest  his  soul,"  Peregrine  his  son 
reigned  in  his  stead. 

This  was  in  accordance  with  custom.  Six 
times  had  cap  and  bells  descended  from  father 
to  son:  we  see  Peregrine  as  the  seventh  inheri- 
tor thereto,  which,  perchance,  holds  some  sig- 
nificance. Pythagorus  would  doubtless  have 
told  us  it  held  much ;  would  have  told  us  we 
find  in  seven  the  last  of  the  limited  numbers, 
a  mere  step  from  it  to  the  free  vibrations. 
Also  he  would  have  seen  double  significance 


2  The  Jester 

in  that  Peregrine's  own  name  held  the  same 
vibration.  And  who  are  we  to  say  him  nay? 
For  my  part  I  would  no  more  dream  of 
venturing  to  gainsay  him  than  I  would  venture 
to  gainsay  the  old  sage  who  read  the  message 
of  the  stars  at  his  birth.  This  sage,  finding 
i  '■  Jiim  bom  under  the  third  decanate  of  Sagit- 
.tprius,  with  Uranus  in  the  ascendant,  and 
having  muttered  of  houses,  and  cusps,  and 
aspects,  and  signs,  and  I  know  not  what 
besides, — and  if  I  did  would  refrain  from 
further  enumeration  lest  I  should  weary  you, 
— proclaimed  him  one  born  to  wander,  a 
seeker  after  that  which  is  not  easily  found, — of 
the  sign  of  Sagittarius,  and  the  planet  Uranus 
are  antiquarians  and  alchemists.  He  gave 
him  also  favours  from  one  of  high  birth,  which 
favours  should  wither  like  June  roses  when 
picked;  gave  him  sorrow  as  companion  for  a 
space, — though  truly  there  is  no  mother's  son 
of  us  knows  not  that  companion  for  a  while, — 
and  the  end  of  his  life's  journey  he  saw  not. 
Whereat  I,  for  one,  rejoice,  since — though  I 
would  not  venture  to  gainsay  the  old  sage — 


Cap  and  Bells  3 

I  believe  that  the  ordering  of  a  man's  destiny 
lies  not  with  the  stars,  but  with  One  Who  holds 
the  universe  in  the  Hollow  of  His  Hand. 

Lisette,  wife  of  Nichol  the  Jester,  gave  how- 
ever full  credence  to  the  sage,  a  credence  equal 
to  that  she  gave  to  the  dogmas  of  Holy  Church, 
therein  showing  herself  illogical  after  the 
manner  of  women,  since  our  Mother  the 
Church  has  ever  bade  us  have  no  dealing 
with  omens,  dreams,  the  riddle  of  the  stars, 
and  such-like  fooleries.  Despite  this,  and 
having  given,  as  we  have  seen,  credulous  ear 
to  the  sage's  prophecy,  she  named  the  boy 
Peregrine. 

When  first  breeched  he  was  costumed  as  a 
miniature  edition  of  his  sire,  half  black,  half 
white,  in  cognizance  of  the  role  he  would  later 
play  in  truth.  The  cap  surrounded  a  chubby 
face,  not  yet  outgrown  the  solemnity  of  baby- 
hood. His  hand,  fat  and  dimpled,  grasped 
the  belled  bauble.  Borne  aloft  on  his  father's 
shoulder  to  the  great  hall,  he  was  set  in  the 
midst  of  the  squires  and  dames, — more  parti- 
cularly the  dames,  since  the  squires  for  the 


4  The  Jester 

most  part  were  that  day  following  their  lord 
over  Exmoor  in  pursuit  of  the  wild  red  deer. 

They  saw  in  him  a  pretty  enough  plaything ; 
found,  for  a  time  at  least,  greater  novelty  in 
his  solemn  silences  and  rare  smiles  than  in 
his  father's  jests.  The  Lady  Clare  de  Belisle 
entering  with  her  own  child,  a  girl  babe  of 
two  summers,  touched  the  tiny  jester's  cheek 
with  one  jewelled  finger,  commended  him  for  a 
bonny  boy.  The  two  children  gazed  at  each 
other  solemn-eyed,  till  Isabel,  the  girl,  putting 
forth  her  hand  was  for  taking  the  young 
jester's  bauble  from  him.  Thereat  Peregrine 
clutched  it  jealously  to  his  breast,  having  no 
mind  to  part  with  his  toy. 

11 1  want, "  said  Isabel,  one  fat  finger  pointed 
towards  the  treasure  clutched  by  the  scowling 
boy.  That  was  the  way  with  Isabel  in  child- 
hood as  in  later  years,  knowing  what  she 
desired  she  hesitated  not  to  demand  it,  and 
obtain  it  by  whatever  means  came  best  to 
hand. 

It  is  not  becoming  that  the  son  of  a  Jester 
should  deny  the  desire  of  his  Lady's  daughter. 


Cap  and  Bells  5 

Nichol,  the  dames,  my  Lady  even,  were  pre- 
pared for  insistence,  a  ruthless  seizing  of  the 
treasure  from  the  baby  grasp;  when  suddenly 
and  without  compulsion,  the  child's  mien 
changed.  Of  his  own  accord  he  tendered  the 
bauble  to  Isabel. 

She  took  it,  smiling.  Even  babes  can  be 
gracious  when  their  wish  is  granted.  For  a 
moment  she  held  it  examining  it  with  curiosity, 
a  curiosity  soon  satiated,  since  after  a  brief 
space  she  held  it  in  a  listless  hand,  tendered 
it  again. 

"I  don't  like  it." 

Peregrine  backed  away  from  her.  Perhaps 
— in  fact  I  am  sure — there  was  reproach  in 
his  blue  eyes.  So  for  a  moment  they  stood. 
Then  Isabel  cast  the  bauble  upon  the  ground. 
And  herein  some  may  read  an  omen.  The 
squires  and  dames  laughed;  my  Lady  mur- 
mured a  gentle  word  of  chiding ;  Nichol  picked 
up  the  bauble;  but  Peregrine  still  looked  at 
Isabel. 

This,  then,  was  Peregrine's  introduction  to 
that  society  wherein  later  he  was  to  wear  the 


6  The  Jester 

cap  and  bells  as  no  mere  pastime  but  in  very 
truth.  Nor  was  it  at  this  time  his  last  appear- 
ance therein.  For  the  first  few  years  of  his 
life  he  played,  in  a  manner,  the  role  of  zany 
to  his  father,  gaining  thereby  much  favour. 
Candour,  a  virtue  allowed  both  children  and 
fools,  was  a  marked  characteristic  of  Pere- 
grine's. If  at  moments  the  recipients  of  his 
frank  speeches  felt  a  trifle  of  embarrassment 
there  was  always  the  knowledge  that  their 
own  blush  or  wince  would  presently  be  super- 
seded by  a  laugh  at  the  blush  or  wince  of 
another.  This  squared  all  accounts,  made  the 
momentary  embarrassment  worth  enduring. 

Yet  what  may  well  pass  as  the  artlessness 
of  a  child,  the  privilege  of  a  fool,  is  of  other 
brand  from  the  boy.  With  the  loss  of  his 
milk  teeth — and  he  was  full  late  in  parting 
with  them — Peregrine's  candour  began  to  lose 
its  charm.  Outspoken  speeches  when  issuing 
from  between  cherry  lips  and  pearls  are  of 
different  ilk  when  the  pearls  are  lacking. 
Herein  we  see  the  injustice  of  the  world. 

The  day  came  when  an  outspoken  speech  of 


Cap  and  Bells  7 

Peregrine's,  exceeding  apt,  perchance  of  over- 
candour, — though  assuredly  a  year  ago  it 
would  have  gained  him  high  applause, — was 
taken  in  ill  part.  True,  there  were  some  who 
tittered,  yet  surreptitiously,  feeling  the  atmo- 
sphere somewhat  charged  with  unfriendly 
omen,  an  omen  none  could  overlook,  seeing 
that  it  emanated  from  the  guest  of  note  who 
sat  frowning  at  the  insouciant  Peregrine. 
Had  the  guest  been  of  less  importance  it  is 
possible  the  affair  might  have  been  settled 
by  a  slight  rebuke,  but  with  her  rank  and 
dignity  in  view  no  such  flimsy  method  was  of 
avail. 

Peregrine  was  dismissed  the  hall  wherein 
he  had  been  a  petted  favourite  since  his  first 
breeching;  and,  before  being  deprived  of  cap 
and  bells,  was  breeched — and  soundly — after 
other  fashion,  the  distinguished  guest  having 
made  it  evident  that  the  smart  of  her  wounded 
feelings  could  only  be  eased  by  the  smarting 
of  Peregrine's  small  body. 

Sore  and  sobbing  he  sought  his  mother,  wept 
out  his  woes,  his  perplexities,  his  hot  face 


8  The  Jester 

buried  in  her  lap.  Thus  with  pain  of  body, 
though  with  but  dim  realization  of  mind, 
Peregrine  first  became  acquainted  with  the 
injustice  of  the  world. 

For  a  time  Peregrine  saw  the  hall  no  more. 
Clad  after  the  ordinary  manner  of  his  kind  he 
kept  out  of  the  way  of  the  noblesse,  the  gentry, 
ill  at  ease  when  he  by  chance  crossed  their 
path,  found  what  human  companionship  he 
would  among  the  servitors  alone, — excepting 
always  that  of  his  father  and  mother,  in  whose 
company  he  at  all  times  found  pleasure. 

He  took  now  to  frequenting  the  woods  and 
moors  which  lay  around  the  castle.  Lying 
on  the  heather,  its  scent  and  the  scent  of  the 
golden  gorse  warm  and  fragrant  in  his  nostrils, 
he  would  gaze  over  the  surrounding  country, 
see  the  blue  channel  below  him  gleaming  in 
the  sunlight,  the  Welsh  coast  dim  and  hazy 
beyond,  look  northwards  to  the  small  town 
nestling  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  which  rises  some 
eight  hundred  feet  above  it. 

Roaming  the  woods  he  would  watch  for 
the  first  hint  of  Spring  in  the  swelling  buds  of 


Cap  and  Bells  9 

the  larch  trees,  would  rejoice  in  the  faint 
shimmer  of  green  flung  over  them  when  she 
first  shows  a  shy  face,  would  seek  among 
brown  leaves  scattered  on  the  ground  for  the 
pale  primrose,  the  delicate  windflower,  the 
fragile  wood  sorrel  with  its  tiny  white  petals 
lightly  veined  in  mauve.  Here  he  learned  of 
the  ways  of  the  wild  creatures  of  nature, 
rather  than  the  ways  of  men,  and  found  them 
more  to  his  liking.  What  we  give  that  shall 
we  receive,  so  are  we  told,  though  verily  there 
are  times  when  the  giving  will  appear  to  out- 
weigh all  receipts.  Possibly  this  is  because 
we  look  to  reward  to  follow  hard  upon  be- 
stowal, trust  not  to  the  finding  after  many 
days.  Here  in  the  woods,  however,  Pere- 
grine found  swift  reward.  The  love  he  be- 
stowed upon  the  woodland  creatures  gained 
him  their  love  in  return.  The  birds  would 
feed  from  his  hand,  the  animals  brought  their 
young  to  play  at  his  feet;  confidence  between 
them  and  him  reached  a  very  pretty  note  of 
harmony. 

Wandering  further  afield  he  would  watch  the 


io  The  Jester 

red  deer  which  in  daylight  found  hiding-place 
in  distant  combes,  see  them  in  moonlight 
moving  in  great  herds  across  the  moor.  In 
the  combes  he  would  go  boldly  up  to  them, 
feed  them  with  pieces  of  coarse  bread,  and 
bunches  of  freshly  pulled  grass.  Only  in  the 
mating  season  he  left  them  alone,  knowing 
the  wild  jealousy  of  the  stag. 

When,  as  frequently  happened,  he  heard 
the  huntsman's  horn,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
hounds,  horses,  and  their  riders  in  full  cry,  he 
would  clench  his  brown  fists,  his  young  jaw 
set  in  a  grim  line,  his  whole  body  a-quiver 
with  rage.  Even  so  might  a  man  feel  who 
saw  his  friend  hunted  to  his  death. 

Once  when  the  harriers  were  out  after  a 
hare,  and  being  close  on  her  heels,  the  frighted 
creature,  seeing  Peregrine,  turned,  crouching 
at  his  feet.  In  a  twinkling  he  had  her  in  his 
arms,  swarmed,  still  holding  her,  up  an  oak, 
whence  hidden  in  the  topmost  branches,  too 
slender  to  bear  aught  but  a  boy's  weight,  he 
heard  angry  baying  at  the  tree's  base.  Pre- 
sently up  came  the  huntsmen.     There  was  a 


Cap  and  Bells  n 

colloquy,  a  debating.  The  foliage  was  too 
thick  to  allow  of  Peregrine  being  perceived, 
perched  as  he  was  aloft,  one  arm  entwining 
a  bough,  the  other  clutching  the  hare,  which 
for  the  moment  lay  panting,  too  frightened  for 
struggle.  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things 
for  hares  to  climb  trees;  nor  was  the  actual 
occurrence  one  likely  to  dawn  on  the  unaided 
imagination.  Baffled,  perplexed,  the  hunts- 
men stood  among  the  baying  harriers,  scratch- 
ing their  heads,  flicking  their  boots  with  their 
riding  crops,  swearing  meanwhile  each  after 
his  own  particular  form  and  fancy.  And  the 
dogs,  who  might  have  told  them  the  manner 
of  the  happening,  being  dumb  of  human 
speech  but  bayed  the  louder.  A  hole  in  the 
oak's  trunk  some  four  feet  or  so  from  the 
ground  offered  a  solution,  an  unlikely  one 
enough,  yet  at  this  juncture  better  than  none. 
Madam  Hare,  so  they  asseverated  among 
themselves,  had  sprung  for  the  hole  and  by 
ill  chance  for  their  sport  had  reached  it.  No 
doubt  she  was  new  crouched  within  the  hollow 
of  the  oak.     To  get  her  out  was  impossible, 


12  The  Jester 

short  of  felling  the  tree ;  and  in  very  sooth  she 
had  found  a  worse  death  within  that  prison 
than  the  quick  end  the  dogs  would  have  made 
of  her. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  seeing  Madam  Hare  as 
escaped  from  their  clutches,  a  victim  of  a  slow 
death  by  starvation,  they  still  lingered,  mutter- 
ing, jabbering,  swearing;  the  dogs  still  making 
loud  din,  causing  Peregrine's  heart  to  beat 
with  fear,  knowing  not  of  the  hole  in  the  tree 
which  had  doubtless  saved  his  skin,  and  the 
life  of  the  trembling  creature  in  his  arm.  The 
weight  of  the  animal  was  no  light  one,  and  his 
muscles  began  to  suffer  cramp .  Feeling  extrem- 
ity at  hand  he  put  up  a  small  prayer,  which  pos- 
sibly was  heard  by  Saint  Francis,  seeing  he  had 
once  rescued  a  like  creature  from  the  hounds. 
Whether  it  was  the  advocacy  of  the  prayer,  or 
whether  the  huntsmen  were  weary  of  their  so- 
journ beneath  the  tree,  you  may  settle  as  it  best 
pleases  you;  for  my  part  I  will  maintain  that 
the  Saint  himself  drew  them  away,  caused 
them  to  call  off  the  dogs,  and  ride  baulked  of 
their  prey  away  from  wood  and  moor. 


Cap  and  Bells  13 

Silence  had  fallen  for  the  space  of  some  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes  before  Peregrine  thought 
safe  to  descend ;  and  in  that  the  hare  had  lain 
quiet  so  long  we  may  likewise  see  the  hand  of 
the  gentle  Saint.  Twenty  yards  or  so  away 
from  the  tree,  clear  from  the  scent  of  the  dogs, 
Peregrine  deposited  his  burden  upon  the 
ground.  A  moment  she  crouched  while  his 
hand  caressed  her  soft  fur,  then  leaping, 
vanished  down  the  glade. 

Yet  this  freedom  of  wood  and  moorland, 
this  sojourning  with  wild  creatures,  that  I  have 
shown  you,  belonged  in  main  to  Peregrine's 
boyhood.  As  he  grew  older  it  was  not 
thought  well,  by  those  who  had  a  say  in  the 
matter,  that  he  should  roam  in  idleness. 
Those  who  eat  bread  must  needs  earn  it  after 
some  fashion,  save  those  who  are  born,  as  the 
saying  is,  with  a  silver  spoon  in  the  mouth. 
Peregrine  after  a  while  found  his  hours 
of  roaming  curtailed.  Armourer,  falconer, 
grooms,  alike  pressed  him  into  service.  No 
special  calling  allotted  him  in  view  of  the  one 
role  he  should  later  play — though  if  the  truth 


14  The  Jester 

be  known  he  looked  to  it  with  but  little 
favour — he  became  the  server  of  many.  This, 
as  may  be  imagined,  irked  him  somewhat. 
He  had  no  mind  to  await  any  man's  behest, 
yet  mind  or  not  he  found  it  must  needs  be 
done.  Being  no  fool  he  brought,  then,  to  his 
tasks  what  good  grace  he  might.  Besides 
his  work  with  armourer,  falconer,  and  grooms, 
he  learned  to  play  the  tabor,  and  had  a  very 
pretty  skill  thereon. 

Of  these  years  I  have  little  to  record.  They 
were  in  the  main  uneventful.  Their  chief 
incident  as  far  as  Peregrine  was  concerned, 
and  one  of  deep  sorrow  to  him,  was  his 
mother's  death.  That  was  a  sorrow  which 
lay  heavy  for  many  a  long  month,  till  time  at 
length  began  imperceptibly  to  ease  the  burden 
of  his  grief. 

Peregrine  had  come  to  man's  estate,  had 
seen,  I  take  it,  four  and  twenty  summers  or 
thereabouts,  when  Nichol  was  stricken  of  the 
ague  which  was  to  end  for  him  this  mortal 
life.  Lying  gaunt  and  hollow-eyed  on  his 
bed,  the  cap  and  bells  on  an  oak  chest  near,  he 


Cap  and  Bells  15 

called  his  son  to  him,  pointed  with  one  wasted 
hand  towards  the  motley  dress. 

"  To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  you  will  be 
wearing  it,"  he  said. 

Peregrine  bowed  his  head.  Finding  it  ill 
to  lie,  even  for  comfort's  sake,  in  the  face  of 
Death,  he  was  silent. 

"A  jest  more  often  than  not  holds  truth," 
said  Nichol,  "yet  now,  between  you  and  me, 
the  truth  may  be  spoken  without  need  of 
jest."  His  eyes,  blue  like  Peregrine's,  sought 
his  son's  eyes,  but  Peregrine's  were  lowered. 

"Look  at  me, "  said  his  father. 

Peregrine  raised  his  eyes. 

"You  like  not  the  thought.  That  I  have 
long  known.  Yet,  what  will  you?  Fate 
made  of  me  a  Jester,  as  she  made  a  Jester  of 
my  father  and  his  sires  before  me,  as  she  now 
makes  one  of  you.  I  accepted  my  role  as  in 
the  nature  of  things.  With  you  it  is  otherwise. 
Submitting  outwardly  to  the  decree  of  fate, 
inwardly  your  spirit  rebels.  It  will  be  hard 
for  you.  The  r61e  of  Jester  is  no  easy  one. 
Dogs  are  we,  waiting  with  a  dog's  wistfulness 


16  The  Jester 

on  the  smile  of  our  master's  lips,  the  pat  of 
our  master's  hand.  And  if,  rather  than  smile 
and  pat,  we  receive  frown  and  blow,  yet  may 
we  not  bite,  since  that  is  of  the  manner  of  a 
cur;  nor  cringe,  since  cringing  is  likewise  of  a 
cur.  We  must  accept  the  frown  and  blow 
submissively,  should  e'en  return  with  wagging 
tail  to  fawn  upon  the  hand  that  struck  us;  and 
if  we  are  wise  dogs  will  learn  new  tricks  better 
suited  to  please.  And  the  man's  heart  in  us 
we  should  drug,  if  we  cannot  kill  it,  lest  it 
grow  to  torment  us.  I  drugged  mine,  or 
tried  to.  It  was,  perchance,  too  strong  to 
kill.  Yet  for  all  the  drugging  there  were 
times  when  it  pulsed  less  sluggishly.  That 
day  when  they  took  the  cap  and  bells  from 
you,  when  they  beat  you,  poor  miserable  little 
fool,  I  jested  my  best.  Had  I  not  jested  I 
would  have  flung  my  bauble  in  the  face  of  the 
woman  who  sat  there  smiling  as  your  cries 
reached  the  hall.  And  the  man's  heart 
suffered  torment  that  day  in  the  dog's  body. 
Yet  Jester  I  was  then,  Jester  I  have  been  since. 
Now  at  last  I  am  man,  and  wholly  man. 


Cap  and  Bells  17 

Death,  when  his  shadow  touches  us,  grants 
us  that  much  solace." 

He  stopped.  Peregrine,  kneeling  by  the 
bed,  found  no  words. 

" Custom, "  went  on  Nichol,  "is  strong 
upon  man;  strongest  of  all,  perchance,  upon 
the  Jester.  Despite  our  moments  of  resent- 
ment we  look  for  applause.  It  is  our  life,  our 
breath.  We  long  for  the  favour  of  our  master. 
I  have  said  we  are  dogs,  and  when  that  is 
said,  all  is  said.  Yet  the  man's  heart  may 
outgrow  the  dog's  body.  You  will  don  the 
motley;  you,  too,  will  fawn  upon  the  hand 
that  strikes  you;  you,  too,  will  watch  with 
wistful  eyes  on  the  desire  of  your  master.  Yet 
if,  as  I  fancy,  the  day  dawns  when  drugs  no 
longer  bring  their  soothing  anodyne  to  your 
man's  heart,  when  the  soul  within  the  motley 
is  a  soul  in  prison,  then  remember  that  I  now 
have  asked  your  pardon  for  the  heritage  you 
will  accept  from  me.  That  is  all.  Now,  son, 
fetch  me  a  priest." 

Of  Peregrine's  words  e'er  he  went  to  fulfil 
his  father's  last  behest,   I  make  no  record. 


18  The  Jester 

They  were  not  intended,  as  may  well  be 
guessed,  for  you  or  me  to  know.  When  they 
were  spoken  he  rose  from  his  knees,  set  out 
for  the  Abbey  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Cliff. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    FOOL'S    ENTRY 

A  ND  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Peregrine  again 
saw  the  hall,  entered  thereto  garbed 
once  more  in  cap  and  bells.  Candour,  so  he 
decreed,  should  be  far  from  his  lips,  having 
in  his  mind  the  memory  of  a  day  now  some 
sixteen  years  old.  It  was  not  for  these  among 
whom  he  should  pass  his  time.  Guile,  art, 
cynicism,  anything  but  truth  should  be  used 
wherewith  to  fashion  the  jests,  the  darts  of 
speech  which  he  should  throw  abroad.  A 
Jester  heedless  of  applause,  of  frowns,  or 
smiles,  thus  he  saw  himself,  wise  for  the 
moment  in  his  own  conceit. 

Here  you  perceive  youth,  which  sees  itself 
strong  to  venture,  disbelieving  the  prophe- 
cies of  age.  Yet  were  it  not  for  venture- 
some youth  we  may  well  believe  that  little 

19 


20  The  Jester 

would  be  attained.  The  babe,  who  first 
totters  on  unsteady  feet,  may  well  lack  the 
qualms,  the  anxieties  of  the  mother  who  sees 
the  fall  imminent.  Had  the  babe  her  mental 
tremors  methinks  there  is  no  mother's  son 
of  us  would  learn  aught  but  to  crawl. 

Peregrine  stood  by  the  window  in  the  great 
hall.  He  found  himself  alone.  Rain,  a  thin 
mist  of  a  rain,  fell  ceaselessly,  insidiously 
from  a  leaden  sky.  The  cloyed  earth  ac- 
cepted it  patiently.  There  was  no  joy  in 
the  acceptance,  no  eager  thirst  as  for  silver 
showers  streaming  downwards.  Sodden  and 
satiated  it  longed  for  the  benign  rays  of  the 
sun  to  awaken  the  half-drowned  life  within  its 
bosom. 

Peregrine  looking  across  the  park  to  the 
further  reaches  of  the  moorland  saw  it 
through  a  grey  mist.  The  outlook  accorded 
well  with  his  mood.  It  lacked  colour,  buoy- 
ancy. The  future  appeared  as  skeleton  as 
the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  flung  against 
the  sullen  sky.     If  Nature's  spring  were  at 


The  Fool's  Entry  21 

hand  she  hid  her  face  well.  Mentally  he  had 
no  glimpse  of  her,  nor  looked  to  have  any.  A 
morbid  mood  for  a  man  you  may  well  say, 
yet  this  was  Peregrine's  at  the  moment. 

Turning  from  the  window  he  scanned  the 
hall,  his  eyes  roving  from  inlaid  floor  to  domed 
ceiling,  from  arched  doorway  to  carved  fire- 
place. The  daylight  was  waning.  Shadows 
loomed  in  the  corners,  were  flung  trembling 
on  the  walls  by  the  firelight, — tongued  flames 
among  great  logs.  The  light  caught  the 
blazon  of  the  house  of  Belisle  among  the 
carving  of  the  overmantel. — On  a  field  argent 
an  inescutcheon  a^ure  set  within  an  orle  of  roses 
gules. 

He  looked  at  it  thoughtfully,  memory 
astir.  As  a  child  the  vivid  bit  of  colour  had 
pleased  him  as  it  flashed  jewel-like  in  sun- 
shine or  firelight  from  the  sombre  shadows  of 
the  oak.  It  pleased  his  eye  now  no  less, 
though  memory  pricking  touched  the  old 
wound   anew. 

To  him  in  this  pensive  mood  entered  a 
page,  a  slim  lad  in  blue  and  silver.     Pere- 


22  The  Jester 

grine  engrossed  in  thought  heard  no  sound 
till: 

"Ahem!"  coughed  the  page. 

Peregrine  started,  looked  up,  met  a  pair  of 
grey  eyes,  mischief  lurking  in  their  depths, 
saw  a  smooth-skinned,  square-faced  lad,  wide- 
mouthed,  with  tip-tilted  nose. 

"Craving  your  pardon  for  breaking  in  upon 
your  meditations,"  quoth  the  lad  with  mock 
respect,  "but  the  Lady  Isabel  desires  your 
presence." 

Peregrine,  returning  to  matters  of  the  mo- 
ment, experienced  a  heart  beat.  Here  was  his 
stage  call,  and  his  part  by  no  means  well- 
conned  as  yet.  Save  at  a  distance  he  had  not 
set  eyes  upon  the  Lady  Isabel  since  childhood, 
sole  mistress  now  of  the  house  of  Belisle,  since 
the  Lady  Clare,  her  mother,  had  been  laid  to 
rest.  The  Lord  Robert  de  Belisle,  her  father, 
was  in  Gascony  with  his  King  subduing  a 
rebellion. 

"And  she  has  sent  you  to  demand  my 
presence?"  asked  Peregrine  lazily,  his  inward 
tremor  well  controlled. 


The  Fool's  Entry  23 

"  Since  I  am  here, "  grinned  the  boy. 

11  Where  is  she?"  demanded  Peregrine,  less 
desirous  of  knowing  than  wishful  to  gain  a 
moment's  respite. 

"In  the  west  chamber  among  her  women, " 
replied  the  boy.  "She  is — weary."  A  pause 
preceded  the  last  word. 

Peregrine  lifted  his  tabor  from  the  broad 
sill  of  the  window. 

"Take  me  to  her, "  he  said. 

Crossing  the  hall  and  mounting  the  stairs 
the  boy  eyed  Peregrine,  gave  him  the  close 
scrutiny  of  childhood,  summed  up  what  he 
found  there,  and  I  fancy  found  it  not  amiss  for 
all  that  it  is  not  usual  to  pay  a  vast  respect  to 
fools.  Peregrine  caught  the  lad's  eye  upon 
him. 

"Well,  what  do  you  make  of  me?"  he 
smiled. 

The  boy  flushed  scarlet  from  brow  to 
chin.  Having  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  man 
beneath  the  motley  words  halted  on  his 
tongue. 

"Your  name?"  asked  Peregrine  still  smiling. 


24  The  Jester 

"Antony  Philip  Delamore,"  stuttered  the 
lad.     "They  call  me  Pippo." 

"Pippo,"  echoed  Peregrine  thoughtfully. 
And  the  boy  heard  the  name  pleasantly  from 
his  lips. 

The  stairs  mounted  they  passed  along  a 
corridor,  paused  at  an  alcove  curtain-hung 
with  tapestry.  Here  Pippo,  entering  first, 
held  aside  the  heavy  draperies. 

"Madam,  the  Jester  awaits  your  pleasure." 

A  voice  smooth,  flexible,  yet  holding,  one 
would  say,  a  ring  of  metal  rather  than  a  hint 
of  silkiness,  replied: 

"Well,  let  him  enter." 

Peregrine  stepped  across  the  threshold,  and 
Pippo  let  the  curtain  fall  behind  him. 

In  the  room  lighted  by  candles,  a  woman 
sat  beside  the  fireplace.  Her  dress  was  of 
crimson  silk,  a  splash  of  colour  against  the 
darkness  of  the  oak  chair,  and  in  the  shadows 
of  the  room.  She  was  tall  and  very  slight, 
yet  you  could  not  call  her  thin.  Her  skin 
was  of  ivory  whiteness.  Her  brow,  low  and 
broad,  was  framed  in  masses  of  dark  hair 


The  Fool's  Entry  25 

glinting  with  vivid  red  lights.  You  caught 
the  gleam  of  pearls  among  its  darkness. 
Towards  the  chin  the  face  narrowed  sharply. 
The  mouth,  subtle-lipped,  showed  a  hint  of 
snowy  teeth.  The  eyes  brown,  lustrous,  with 
the  blue  whites  of  a  child's  eyes,  looked  from 
beneath  level  brows  towards  the  curtain. 

Peregrine  saw  her  eyes. 

With  her  were  her  four  women, — Mary 
Chester,  the  oldest,  steady-eyed,  smooth- 
haired,  common  sense  well  mingled  with 
devoutness;  Leonora  Ashton,  a  well  grown 
girl,  built  to  be  the  mother  of  sons,  healthy 
in  mind  and  body  alike;  Monica  Cardew,  a 
willowy  slip  of  a  girl,  dreamy,  with  little 
thought  beyond  her  embroideries  and  her 
rosary;  and  last  Brigid  Carlisle,  square-faced, 
merry,  something  boyish.  Well-favoured 
women  the  first  three,  each  after  her  own 
fashion,  Brigid  alone  having  no  pretension  to 
looks,  though  a  pleasant  face  you  would  have 
found  it,  yet  the  beauty  of  the  three  maids 
dimmed  beside  that  of  the  mistress. 

Nature  as  a  rule  gives   discreetly.      Giv- 


26  The  Jester 

ing  features  she  deems  to  have  done  well  if 
she  withholds  colouring,  giving  colouring  she 
withholds  features.  Giving  brains  she  often 
withholds  form,  giving  form  she  may  pay  but 
scant  attention  to  brains.  Of  virtue  I  make 
no  mention  seeing  it  is  a  gift  of  grace  rather 
than  appertaining  solely  to  Nature.  Yet 
now  and  again,  at  rare  moments  truly,  Nature 
becomes  prodigal  of  her  gifts,  bestows  open- 
handed.  Thus  her  gifts  to  Isabel  de  Belisle. 
I  have  given  you  but  the  outline,  you  may  fill 
in  the  detail,  and  add  thereto  that  most  sub- 
tle, elusive,  and  unaccountable  of  her  gifts, — 
charm,  personality,  fascination — call  it  what 
you  will. 

Peregrine,  I  have  told  you,  saw  her  eyes. 
Then  remembering  her  presence  bowed  low 
before  her. 

Isabel  scanned  him,  a  quick  glance,  very 
comprehensive.  Since  we  have  here  been 
dealing  with  Nature's  gifts  we  may  well  see 
those  she  has  accorded  our  Jester.  A  lean- 
limbed  man  he  was,  tall,  and  very  straight. 
The  face,  surrounded  by  the  cap  half  black, 


The  Fool's  Entry  27 

half  white,  was  bronzed  with  sun  and  open  air. 
The  hair  hidden  beneath  it  one  might  well 
guess  to  be  dark,  judging  from  the  slight 
shadow  on  shaven  lip  and  chin.  The  nose 
was  straight,  the  nostrils  sensitive.  The 
eyes,  black-lashed,  were  of  an  extraordinary 
blueness.  Looking  in  his  face  you  were 
aware  of  vivid  colour,  and  saw  that  it  lay  in 
his  eyes.  The  pupils  were  very  black.  The 
mouth,  sensitive  as  the  nostrils,  was  firm- 
lipped.  The  chin,  square,  was  set  at  a  fine 
angle  with  the  jaw.  Seeking  for  character  you 
would  have  read  determination  in  the  line. 

Isabel  was  not  the  only  woman  who  scanned 
him.  The  four  maids  had  their  glances  ready, 
— Mary  Chester's  brief  but  sure;  Leonora's 
calm,  somewhat  indifferent;  Monica's  swift, 
timid,  eyes  falling  again  to  the  frame  of  her 
embroidery;  Brigid's  frank,  boyish  almost. 
But  Peregrine's  eyes  were  still  upon  Isabel. 

Isabel  looking  found  novelty.  Nor  was  it 
merely  the  novelty  in  a  new-comer,  a  novelty 
enhanced  by  dreary  weather,  enforced  sojourn 
within  doors.     In  outward  form  she  saw  a 


28  The  Jester 

Jester,  good-looking  enough,  but  merely  a 
Jester  such  as  his  sire  and  grandsires  before 
him.  Yet  for  a  brief  space,  swift  as  the 
tongued  lightning  which  shoots  across  the 
darkened  sky,  she  saw  something  more  than 
mere  fool.  And  having  seen  it  she  perceived 
in  the  fool  the  cloak  to  a  riddle,  a  riddle  per- 
chance worth  the  solving.  Yet  she  gave  no 
hint  of  having  seen. 

"Your  name,  Sir  Jester?"  she  demanded 
her  eyes  now  upon  the  fire,  speaking  of  set 
purpose  without  looking  at  him,  as  one  may 
speak  to  a  servant. 

"Peregrine,  Madam." 

"Peregrine?"  she  dwelt  on  the  syllables. 
"A  bird?" 

"A  species  of  hawk,  Madam." 

"Then  a  bird  of  prey?" 

"Maybe;  yet  swift  of  flight,  a  wanderer." 

"Ah!  And  were  you  named  for  prey, 
flight,  or  wanderer?" 

Peregrine  lifted  his  shoulders,  the  merest 
suspicion  of  a  shrug.  "The  last,  so  my 
mother  told  me." 


The  Fool's  Entry  29 

"Yet  you  have  not  wandered  far,  nor  are 
likely  to  do  so." 

"True,  Madam;  yet  you  speak  now  of  the 
body.,, 

"The  body?" 

"The  spirit  may  soar  aloft,  wander  in 
realms  of  fancy.  No  man  but  the  owner  may 
clip  the  wings  of  that  bird." 

"You  speak  seriously  for  a  Jester." 

"Serious  words,  Madam,  cloak  light  fancies. 
Light  words  cloak  serious  fancies.  Therefore 
you  perceive  my  fancies,  being  light  of  wing, 
can  soar." 

"Ah!"  She  threw  him  a  swift  glance, 
read  something  sombre  in  his  eyes;  re- 
membered, since  a  woman's  heart  should 
surely  hold  some  thought  for  others,  that 
death's  hand  had  but  lately  touched  one  near 
to  him. 

Peregrine  read  her  glance;  had  no  mind  for 
pity  in  that  direction.  Death  had  come  as  a 
good  friend  to  his  sire,  had  flung  the  cell  door 
open.  Yet  how  to  turn  her  thought?  How 
act  the  part  it  was  his  to  play?     Fate  had 


30  The  Jester 

indeed  flung  the  r61e  upon  him,  garbed  his 
body  while  poorly  equipping  his  tongue.  In 
this  he  perceived  her  irony.  Seeking  for  words 
his  hand  touched  his  tabor. 

"Madam,  I  know  a  song." 

"But  one?"  Her  voice  held  a  hint  of 
mockery. 

"For  the  moment." 

"A  merry  song?     A  sad  song?" 

"Madam,  it  will  accord  with  the  mood  of  the 
listener,  therefore  I  will  term  it  neither  a 
merry  song,  nor  a  sad  song,  but  an  adaptable 
song." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  "An  un- 
usual song.     Let  us  hear  it." 

Peregrine  struck  a  couple  of  chords  on  the 
tabor,  then  in  a  voice  not  large,  but  a  sweet 
barytone,  he  sang: 


Ah,  what  it  is  to  dream 
Know  ye,  who  seek  to  deem 
Your  way  a  path  more  bright 
Than  that  it  now  doth  seem; 
More  grand  of  sight,  more  bathed  in  light. 
Ah,  what  it  is  to  dream  ! 


The  Fool's  Entry  31 

If  thou  dost  e'er  desire 
To  seek  sweet  fancy's  fire, 
To  warm  at  her  soft  flame, 
Repent  not  of  the  hire, 
Nor  whence  it  came,  nor  count  it  blame 
If  thou  dost  e'er  desire. 

Nor  seek  to  close  thine  eyes, 
But  take  this  good  advice 
And  quest  with  willing  heart. 
For  they  are  truly  wise 
Who  bear  the  smart  of  fire  apart. 
Nor  seek  to  close  thine  eyes. 

And  shrink  not  from  the  fire 
If  thou  hast  true  desire 
Through  pain  to  win  thy  day. 
Shake  from  thy  feet  the  mire, 
The  mud  of  clay  gained  by  the  way, 
And  shrink  not  from  the  fire. 

So  shall  thou  find  thy  goal, 
And  finding  gain  thy  soul. 
Thy  dreaming  was  not  all; 
It  asked  a  lesser  toll, 
A  toll  so  small.     Then  came  the  call. 
So  shalt  thou  find  thy  goal. 

The  song  ended  a  silence  fell  on  the  room. 
Mary  Chester  had  heard  it  very  sanely,  the 
words  lost  for  the  most  part  in  the  melody 


32  The  Jester 

that  accompanied  them.  Leonora,  dream- 
ing, saw  the  goal  of  motherhood,  though  as 
yet  distant.  Monica  pictured  some  peaceful 
cloister,  heard  the  sweet  tones  of  the  Angelus. 
Brigid,  half-smiling,  sighed;  saw,  I  fancy, 
further  than  did  the  others. 

As  for  Isabel,  she  looked  at  the  fire. 
Pippo,  lying  on  the  hearth,  looked  from  her 
to  Peregrine. 

"Whose  are  the  words ?"  asked  Isabel. 

"Madam,  they  come  from  realms  of  fancy." 

"Your  own?" 

"Those  wherein  I  have  occasionally  wan- 
dered." 

"Find  you  many  such  songs  there?" 

"Now  and  again.  They  are,  however,  often 
elusive,  escaping  as  soon  as  perceived." 

Isabel  turned  from  the  fire,  looked  full  at 
him.  She  gave  him  now  a  smile,  rare  with 
her,  though  Peregrine  was  not  to  know  that. 
His  heart  beat  hotly. 

"Methinks,"  she  said,  "you  are  poet 
rather  than  Jester." 

The    colour    rushed    to    Peregrine's    face. 


The  Fool's  Entry  33 

Memory  of  his  resolution  surged  towards 
him,  yet  was  it  driven  back  by  the  smile  that 
trembled  on  her  lips. 

"Madam,  I — "  he  stammered. 

Isabel  misunderstood  the  hesitation.  She 
had  seen  his  sire  wince  with  the  new  jest 
ready  on  his  tongue.  Here  was  no  jest  ready, 
and  strangely  enough  she  would  cloak  the 
deficiency. 

"I — I  am  not  displeased.' '  The  words  fell 
softly  from  her  lips. 

And  at  that  laughter  sprang  to  Peregrine's 
throat,  a  flash  of  mockery  to  his  eyes,  though 
he  replied  gravely  enough  and  meekly, 
"Madam,  I  am  at  all  times  what  you  would 
desire  me." 

1 '  Ah ! ' '  breathed  Isabel  watching  him.  Then 
very  sweetly,  "Now  I  see  in  you  courtier, 
yet  I  would  have  you  poet ;  therefore,  sir  poet, 
sing  again." 

And  Peregrine  sang. 

Some  hour  or  so  later,  Peregrine  departed, 
Isabel  asked  carelessly  of  her  women: 


34  The  Jester 

"What  think  you  of  our  Jester?" 

"A  very  proper  man,"  quoth  Brigid  de- 
murely. 

"He  has  a  sweet  voice,"  ventured  Monica 
timidly. 

"He  differs  from  his  sire, "  mused  Leonora. 

Mary  Chester  alone  was  silent. 

"And  you?"  asked  Isabel,  looking  directly 
at  her. 

"Madam,  I  have  no  opinion,"  replied 
Mary;  and  took  herself  to  task  for  the  lie. 


CHAPTER  III 


SWEET  BONDAGE 


OPRING  that  year  made  battle  royal  with 
cold  winds.  Together  they  fought  for 
the  mastery.  Yet  where  they  gained  in 
strength  she  gained  in  insistence.  Driven 
away  she  yet  returned  again  and  again,  till  at 
length  they  were  weary  of  the  fight,  and  fled 
before  her  to  return  no  more. 

The  victory  hers  she  reigned  supreme  and 
triumphant,  flung  her  snowy  mantle  over  fruit 
trees,  kissed  to  full  awakening  the  flowers  in 
copse  and  field,  roused  to  chorus  of  warblings  the 
birds'  song  in  the  hedges.  Knowing  her  reign 
late  and  soon  to  pass  to  that  of  summer  she  lost 
no  moment  of  it  once  established.  The  south 
and  west  winds,  now  her  subjects,  sang  softly 
among  the  trees  and  grasses  at  her  bidding. 
The  sun,  king  of  all,  crowned  his  reigning  queen. 

35 


36  The  Jester 

Peregrine  sat  in  the  castle  garden  at  the 
foot  of  the  white  sundial  which  stood  at  the 
edge  of  the  velvet  grass  sward.  Around  him 
were  flower-beds  brilliant  with  colour.  Here 
were  masses  of  small  purple  campanula  cover- 
ing the  stone  border  between  flower-bed  and 
flagged  path;  clumps  of  anemones  many-hued, 
named  for  St.  Brigid;  narcissi  golden-eyed 
trembling  in  the  soft  air;  forget-me-nots  blue 
as  the  sky  or  Our  Lady's  robe;  scillas  deeper 
dyed;  tulips  chalice-shaped,  gold,  crimson,  and 
white, — a  very  riot  of  colour,  gay  as  the  sweet 
mad  call  of  spring. 

Beyond  lay  the  park,  the  trees  clean  and 
fresh  in  their  vesture  of  new  leaves;  and 
beyond  that  again  the  open  spaces  of  the 
moorland.  Peregrine,  looking  thereat,  saw 
its  freedom,  remembered  his  own.  A  pris- 
oner now,  he  laughed,  yet  without  bitterness. 
Ten  short  weeks  to  change  a  man,  yet  he 
found  himself  changed. 

Peregrine  set  himself  to  think.  Yet  this 
he  found  no  easy  task.  He  could  see  himself 
as  he  was  ten  weeks  agone,  fancied  the  mental 


Sweet  Bondage  37 

image  as  clear-cut  as  a  cameo,  a  good  likeness 
withal.  He  could  see  himself  as  he  was  now, 
the  outlines  dimmed  truly,  blurred  by  some 
curious  mist  of  thought,  yet  sufficiently  clear 
to  know  that  here  was  a  different  man  from 
the  sharp-cut  cameo.  To  the  change,  the 
manner  of  its  happening,  he  found  it  no  easy 
task  to  bring  clear  thought.  Once  a  freeman 
scorning  all  thought  of  thraldom,  now  a 
prisoner  exulting  in  his  bonds.  That  the 
bonds  which  held  him  differed  from  those  that 
had  held  his  sire  he  was  very  certain.  Custom 
had  bound  his  sire,  he  had  his  own  word  for 
it.  Here  was  no  custom  to  hold  him,  but 
bonds  infinitely  sweeter,  light  yet  inflexible 
as  iron.  He  would  not  be  free  of  them  if  he 
could. 

What  was  he?  A  prisoner  in  very  sooth. 
Yet  more, — a  Jester  who  failed  to  jest ;  a  man 
seeking  for  art,  for  guile,  wherein  to  hide  his 
heart,  yet  clothing  it  ever  in  truth,  though 
truth  carved  to  poetic  fancy. 

"Dogs  are  we!"  so  had  cried  his  sire.  No 
dog  was  he  to  fawn  and  cringe  at  the  foot  of 


38  The  Jester 

his  mistress,  but  in  very  sooth  a  man  kneeling 
in  adoration  at  his  lady's  shrine.  And  as  he 
was,  so  she  accepted  him,  this  Jester  who 
could  not  jest.  She  saw  the  man  beneath  the 
fool,  and  stooping  from  her  heights  recognized 
his  manhood.  Even  so  might  the  Gracious 
Mother  of  God  bend  from  Heaven  to  a  sup- 
pliant son  of  earth.  There  was  no  hint  of 
blasphemy  in  his  thought ;  in  his  very  man- 
hood he  was  humble. 

You  see  in  him  a  man  who  had  had  no 
thought  for  women.  Two  only  had  held  his 
love, — his  mother,  at  whose  knee  in  child- 
hood he  had  prayed,  and  that  other  Mother 
to  whom  his  prayers  had  been  addressed, 
11  Sancta  Maria,  Mater  Dei,  or  a  pro  nobis 
peccatoribus,  nunc  et  in  hora  mortis  nostra." 

Therefore  he  brought  to  his  lady  a  very 
clean  heart,  a  very  humble  heart,  one  which  in 
all  childlikeness  accepted  her  favours,  though 
warm  with  the  strength  of  a  man's  devotion 
it  sang  a  man's  praises  in  her  honour.  You 
must  not  think  that  he  lifted  his  eyes  one  whit 
higher  than  the  hem  of  her  robe;  she  was  to 


Sweet  Bondage  39 

him  a  very  queen,  himself  the  humblest  of  her 
subjects.  Yet  he  knew  himself  now  as  man, 
and  no  fool,  his  adoration  clean  and  strong, 
no  hint  of  the  fawner  in  his  attitude. 

That  the  knowledge  brought  him  joy  you 
may  well  believe.  His  heart  was  attuned  to 
the  joyous  note  of  spring.  Sun,  the  flowering 
earth,  the  soft  winds,  all  were  to  him  but 
symbols  of  his  happiness,  portraying  for  him 
his  lady's  praises.  Looking  back  on  his  first 
meeting  with  her  he  still  felt  a  flush  of  shame 
that  he  had  momentarily  doubted  her  truth, 
had  spoken  words  that  held  a  note  of  irony. 
For  that  he  struck  his  breast,  cried  "  Mea 
culpa,"  saw  himself  the  fool  his  garb  set 
forth.  Truth  incarnate  in  woman,  so  he 
saw  her  now,  loftily  enshrined  beside  his 
mother,  the  shrine  I  think  very  near  to  that 
of  the  Mother  of  God.  Kneeling  afar  at 
Mass  he  saw  her  bend  her  head  in  adoration, 
rejoiced  to  think  they  were  at  one  in  this  great 
Act  of  Worship.  The  whiteness  of  his  love 
we  may  well  believe  lifted  him  nearer  God. 

Having,  then,  some  hint  of  his  mood  you 


40  The  Jester 

will  know  that  Peregrine  sitting  by  the  sundial 
found  the  morning  very  fair.  Having  mused, 
and  finding  it  hard  to  say  by  what  precise 
steps  he  had  reached  his  present  goal,  he 
turned  from  musing,  content  merely  that  here 
he  was.  Light  of  heart  he  looked  across  the 
park,  saw  the  shadows  lying  still  and  blue 
beneath  the  trees,  saw  the  purple  outline  of 
the  moorland,  heard  a  lark  pouring  forth 
exuberant  song  from  the  cloudless  sky. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  grass  sward,  on  a 
stone  bench,  Brigid  was  sitting  with  Mary 
Chester.  Embroidery,  as  their  custom  was, 
occupied  their  fingers,  or  it  would  be  safer 
to  say  that  Mary's  were  occupied  thereby. 
Brigid  for  the  most  part  held  her  needle 
idly,  her  eyes  more  often  roving  to  the 
motionless  figure  by  the  sundial  than  bent 
upon  her  work. 

"Methinks, "  she  said  suddenly,  breaking  a 
long  silence,  "that  the  Lady  Isabel  favours 
our  present  Jester. "  Head  on  one  side 
she  surveyed  the  distant  figure  meditatively, 
unashamedly. 


Sweet  Bondage  41 

"The  Lady  Isabel  is  gracious  to  all,"  said 
Mary  sedately,  her  eyes  upon  her  embroidery. 

"Hmm."  Brigid's  eyes  twinkled.  Elbow 
on  knee,  chin  in  cupped  hand,  she  cast  a  side- 
long look  at  Mary.  "And  will  you  be  record- 
ing that  small  speech  at  confession." 

Mary  flushed.  "I  do  not  understand," 
she  responded. 

"No?"  quizzed  Brigid.  "Oh,  Mary,  me- 
thought  you  were  a  truthful  woman.  And 
here  within  the  space  of  one  minute  you  have 
twice — Oh,  fie  upon  you!" 

Mary,  her  lips  folded  upon  each  other, 
stitched  at  her  embroidery. 

"I  wonder,"  mused  Brigid,  unheeding  her 
companion's  silence,  "just  what  our  dear 
mistress  intends." 

Still  Mary  was  silent. 

"You  see, "  pursued  Brigid,  "you  know  her, 
and  I  know  her,  and  methinks  her  present 
mood  is  dangerous  for  the  peace  of  mind  of 
our  friend  yonder.  Just  how  far  will  she  lead 
him?  Just  how  far  will  she  let  him  feel  her 
power?     Ah  me,  had  I  her  looks  instead  of  the 


42  The  Jester 

half-hearted  dower  Dame  Nature  has  be- 
stowed on  me,  methinks  willy  nilly  the  maid 
would  enter  the  field  with  the  mistress,  and 
should  the  maid  gain  the  day  I'll  warrant  the 
awakening  would  be  less  rude  to  the  sleeping 
fool.  Mary,  a  word  in  your  ear.  Melikes 
that  young  man." 

Mary  raised  her  eyes  from  her  embroidery. 
"And  that,"  she  remarked  quietly,  "is  the 
truest  word  you've  spoken." 

"A  true  word,  verily;  but  I  crave  leave  to 
omit  the  superlative.  Let  me  show  the  truth 
of  the  other  words,  emphasise  it  since  you 
hesitate  to  grant  it.  Therefore  firstly,  note 
our  knowledge  of  the  Lady  Isabel;  secondly, 
her  mood  dangerous  to  the  peace  of  mind  of 
our  friend  yonder;  thirdly,  the  awakening 
less  rude  were  it  left  to  me.  And  firstly, 
secondly,  and  thirdly  holds,  I'll  warrant, 
every  whit  as  much  truth  as  lastly.  Hence 
I  say  again,  I  omit  the  superlative,  by  your 
leave." 

For  a  moment  Mary  was  still  silent.  Then 
she  spoke,  her  voice  grave.     "You  are  barely 


Sweet  Bondage  43 

charitable,  Brigid;  and,  methinks,  hardly 
loyal.,, 

Brigid  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "As  for 
loyalty,  I  do  not  speak  in  this  fashion  save 
to  you.  And  for  charity — bah!  Were  I  to 
divest  my  speech  of  all  criticism  methinks 
'twould  be  as  savourless  as  food  without  salt 
and  spices,  mere  pap  for  babes." 

Mary  sighed. 

"You  sigh,  and  rightly.  Mary,  it  angers 
me.  Man  though  he  is,  his  role  is  but  that  of 
fool, — fool  by  birth,  heritage,  and  calling. 
She  is  as  guarded  from  him  as  ever  was 
Brunhilde  from  Siegfried  by  the  ring  of  fire. 
He  knows  it,  and  she  knows  it.  Yet  by  the 
syren  song  of  her  she  lures  him  ever  nearer. 
And,  if  her  song  continues,  one  day  in  madness 
he  will  try  to  pass  the  barrier  of  flame.  Her 
song  and  madness  alone  will  urge  him  to  the 
attempt.  Then  the  flame  will  burn  him;  and 
I  know,  yes,  I  know,  she  will  mock  at  his 
wounds."  Low  and  fierce  Brigid  spoke  the 
last  words. 

"You  let  imagination  run  away  w;th  you. 


44  The  Jester 

You  feel  too  deeply.' '     Mary's  words  were 
calm. 

Brigid  looked  straight  before  her.  "  Sooner 
feel  too  deeply  than  have  a  heart  of  stone. 
Mary,  I'd  sooner  be  dumb  than  lure  men  by 
the  syren's  song.  I'd  sooner  be  featureless 
with  leprosy  than  drive  men  mad  by  the 
fairness  of  my  face.  She  is  heartless  as  a 
stone  image,  remorseless  as  a  Medusa,  a  very 
vampire  to — ."  Brigid  broke  off;  a  sidelong 
glance  had  shown  her  Mary's  face.  "You  are 
shocked?  Small  wonder.  Truth  is  a  very 
naked  lady,  and  if  we  drag  her  from  the  bottom 
of  her  well  we  should  at  least  garb  her  in 
becoming  fashion.  We  will  lower  her  again 
to  the  darkness  of  her  well,  and  herewith 
change  the  topic  of  our  discourse.  Mark 
you,  how  blue  the  sky  is,  and  look  at  the 
white  butterfly  resting  on  my  anemones 
yonder.  See  the  quivering  of  its  wings,  the 
darling!  'Tis  the  first  I  have  seen  this  year." 
Gaiety  in  every  note  of  the  words  you  could 
not  have  imagined  the  passionate  utterance 
of  a  moment  agone. 


Sweet  Bondage  45 

Mary  was  silent,  tears  not  far  from  her  eyes. 

"What  ails  you?"  asked  Brigid  solicitously. 

Mary  smiled  wanly.  "I  liked  not  the 
sight  of  truth,"  she  replied. 

"Nor  I,"  averred  Brigid.  "Twas  ill  to 
drag  her  from  her  resting-place.  Since  she 
cannot  be  killed  she  is  best  hidden.  Let  us 
cry  Deo  gratias  that  there  is  a  well  wherein 
to  hide  her.  And  you  and  I  will  dance  and 
smile  at  the  edge  thereof;  since,  verily,  save 
for  that  or  moping,  which  is  ill,  we  can  do 
nothing." 

"Nothing,"  echoed  Mary.  "Save  pray," 
she  added  a  moment  later,  and  below  her 
breath. 

Brigid  caught  the  words,  and  her  eyes  gave 
assent  thereto,  if  not  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  IV 

a  woman's  will 

LJERE  you  will  have  seen  two  views  of  the 
same  woman,  one  from  the  mountain 
summit,  ratified,  enfolded  almost  in  the  very- 
air  of  Paradise;  the  other  at  the  mountain 
base,  to  say  the  least  of  the  earth  earthy. 
Justice  demands  that  I  show  you  some  third 
view  of  her,  and  that  as  dispassionate  as  may 
be.  From  the  three  you  may  chose  your  own 
view,  see  it  perhaps  from  a  via  media. 

And  here  my  task  is  no  easy  one,  since  to 
deal  with  the  many  intricacies  of  the  human 
mind,  and  above  all  the  mind  of  a  woman, 
needs  first  a  clear  perception,  secondly  a 
careful  adjustment  of  values,  and  lastly  a 
nicety  of  phrase  in  setting  them  forth,  that 
those  to  whom  I  would  show  them  may  see 

the  truth  as  I  believe  it,  whatever  conclu- 

46 


A  Woman's  Will  47 

sions  they  may  draw  therefrom.  Partially  to 
achieve  this  object  is  all  I  can  hope  for;  if  I 
give  you  a  glimpse  of  the  truth  it  must  suffice. 
The  rest  I  must  leave  to  you,  trusting  to  your 
imagination,  your  power  to  mould  from  the 
material  I  will  give  you.  At  least  I  will  en- 
deavour that  the  material  be  not  too  hard 
cast;  plastic  as  may  be  you  shall  have  it. 

And  first,  by  your  leave,  I  would  say  this: 
I  write,  it  is  true,  of  days  now  some  six  hundred 
years  old,  yet  human  nature  has  been  human 
nature  from  the  time  of  our  first  parents.  It 
is  a  melody  composed  at  the  beginning  of  the 
ages;  it  is  repeated  throughout  the  centuries, 
the  air  ever  the  same,  underlying  the  many 
variations  woven  around  it. 

And  now  to  Isabel.  Of  her  outward  seem- 
ing I  have  shown  you,  in  so  far  as  I  am  able 
with  mere  pen  to  portray  what  should  verily 
be  limned  by  painter's  art.  Of  herself,  the 
inward  woman,  there  is  this  to  say.  She 
desired  power.  There,  in  three  words,  you 
will  perceive  the  keynote.  That  given  we  will 
on  to  the  further  composition.     It  is  by  no 


48  The  Jester 

means  certain  how  far  she  knew  that  she 
desired  it.  We  desire  air  that  we  may  live 
and  breathe,  yet  we  are  not  always  seeking  it, 
since  it  is  ever  with  us ;  it  surrounds  us,  and  we 
accept  it  with  no  thought  on  our  own  part. 
Let  it  be  withdrawn  and  we  are  conscious  of 
the  lack,  go  forth  to  seek  it.  Power  was  then 
to  Isabel  as  air  is  to  mankind  at  large.  From 
childhood — babyhood  even — it  had  been  hers 
to  command.  All  had  been  ready  to  do  her 
homage,  first  on  account  of  her  beauty,  sec- 
ondly on  account  of  her  charm,  since  charm 
she  had.  There  were  those,  truly,  who 
gave  her  homage  somewhat  against  their  own 
will,  drawn  thereto  mainly  by  the  example 
of  others.  Belonging  to  a  court  it  is  ill  to 
stand  aloof  from  the  worship  the  mistress  of 
the  court  demands,  that  worship  which  her 
courtiers  freely  accord  her.  And  this  reason 
may  well  count  for  thirdly. 

Full  homage  then  was  done  to  Isabel;  the 
power  she  desired  was  hers  for  the  most  part 
without  effort.  Peregrine  alone  denied  it  to 
her. 


A  Woman's  Will  49 

Personally  I  see  in  her  neither  the  heights 
now  accorded  her  by  Peregrine,  nor  the 
depths  her  maids  saw  in  her.  Had  the 
heights  been  hers  she  surely  would  have  been 
indifferent  to  the  thought  that  one  man  alone 
refused  to  do  her  homage ;  had  the  depths  been 
hers  she  would  have  borne  him  malice,  set 
herself  to  conquer  and  then  to  slay.  But 
there  was  not  then,  I  believe,  any  definite 
thought  of  ill  towards  him.  Of  later  I  am 
none  so  sure.  It  was  merely  the  fruit  beyond 
her  reach  which  had  excited  her  desire.  Pere- 
grine the  Jester,  whose  presence  she  had  first 
demanded  with  the  same  indifference  she  had 
times  out  of  number  demanded  the  presence 
of  his  sire,  had,  from  the  moment  of  his 
entrance,  stirred  interest  in  her.  She  saw  in 
him,  as  you  have  already  seen,  something 
more  than  Jester.  The  perception  was  elusive 
enough  to  bring  the  interest  to  full  awakening, 
to  set  it  as  it  were  on  the  scent  of  something 
further  to  be  discovered.  She  had  heard  his 
song,  had  seen  his  face,  and  had  read  therein, 
something  of  a  challenge,  or  perhaps  more 


50  The  Jester 

rightly  had  seen  a  barrier  thrown  down  by  the 
man. 

"As  fool  I  give  you  my  allegiance,"  she 
might  have  heard  him  say.  "In  that  role 
you  shall  exact  from  me  your  due  to  the 
uttermost  farthing.  One  iota  beyond  you 
shall  never  gain." 

In  imagery  she  had  seen  him  standing  aloof, 
proud,  cold,  very  sure  that  as  man  he  would 
never  bend  the  knee  to  her.  Outwardly  his 
r61e  should  be  as  perfect  as  might  be,  a  very 
skilled  art  of  play-acting,  every  entrance 
exact  to  time,  every  word  carefully  conned, 
faultlessly  delivered.  She  saw  him  here 
forcing  her  to  play  the  part  he  would  assign 
to  her;  to  deliver,  half  unconsciously,  the 
speeches  that  would  bring  from  him  the 
response  he  desired  to  make.  The  very 
knowledge  that  he  would  have  the  power  to 
do  this  drew  admiration  from  her,  and  I  am 
by  no  means  sure  that  the  admiration  was 
grudging.  Yet  Jester  on  the  stage,  he  would 
be  man  in  the  wings,  smiling  at  his  own  skill, 
mocking  at  her.     This  knowledge  tantalized, 


A  Woman's  Will  51 

stung,  brought  her  will  swiftly  yet  lightly  to 
the  fray.  To  my  thinking  this  shows  her 
very  shallow:  her  charm  I  have  never  denied. 

To  the  mere  onlooker  the  conflict  may  well 
seem  ignoble,  unworthy  one  of  her  degree. 
Yet  she  saw  it  in  other  fashion.  Rank, 
degree,  sank  for  the  time  being  into  abeyance. 
It  became  the  conflict — though  lightly  under- 
taken— for  a  soul  that  had  denied  her  power. 
Ignoble  we  may  well  call  it  for  the  one 
who  recognised  the  conflict,  yet  ignoble  in 
other  meaning  than  her  courtiers  might  have 
termed  it.  It  would  be,  too,  no  open  fight 
with  trumpet  call  to  battle,  lances  displayed. 
In  such  she  might  well  see  herself  worsted. 
The  castle  of  the  man's  soul  must  be  ap- 
proached by  soft  stealth.  Guile  must  take 
the  place  of  sword  and  spear. 

And  Peregrine  had  no  hint  of  that  which 
was  about  to  befall;  there  was  the  pity  of  it. 
Forewarned  might  have  been  forearmed.  It 
is  very  true  that  his  father's  words  had  caused 
him  to  enclose  his  soul  within  a  castle,  from 
which,   he  held,   none  should  lure  it  forth. 


52  The  Jester 

Should  one  use  the  terms  of  parable  one  might 
name  the  castle  pride.  Without,  his  soul 
might  have  had  clearer  view  of  approaching 
dangers.  Within,  believing  himself  secure, 
he  saw  not  the  guile  which  crept  towards  the 
walls. 

Yet  direct  speech  rather  than  parable  will 
best  serve  us  in  the  pursuance  of  the  matter. 

Isabel  the  woman  brought  every  woman's 
art — and  of  these  not  one  was  lacking  her — 
to  conquer  Peregrine  the  man.  You  have 
seen  the  result.  I  have  not  given  you  the 
details  of  the  conflict  nor  will  do  so.  Though 
truly  to  call  it  a  conflict  when  never  once  was 
seen  the  flash  of  naked  steel  seems  somewhat 
of  an  anomaly.  Isabel's  art  in  this  matter 
would  need  great  skill  to  set  forth.  Per- 
chance after  some  fashion  I  might  show  it 
you  were  I  so  minded,  yet  will  I  leave  it  to 
your  imagination.  To  know  the  wiles  by 
which  a  man's  spirit  is  enslaved  is  not  the 
most  pleasing  of  knowledge.  It  certainly 
holds  somewhat  of  sadness,  even  possibly  of 
distaste. 


A  Woman's  Will  53 

Peregrine  saw  no  ill  in  the  enslaving,  held 
himself  a  willing  captive;  while  Isabel  for 
the  moment  found  pleasure  in  her  captive. 
Recognizing  his  capitulation  it  amused  her 
to  reward  him  with  many  favours.  At  the 
present,  too,  he  interested  her.  She  felt  his 
strength,  saw  in  his  mind  much  that  she  had 
not  yet  fully  fathomed.  That  fact  pleased 
her,  left  her  with  the  possibility  of  discovery. 
The  joy  in  the  possession  of  an  empty  casket, 
however  fair  it  may  be  exteriorly,  soon  palls. 
One  containing  much  has  ever  interest.  Its 
contents  may  be  examined  at  leisure,  there  is 
ever  that  to  be  found,  probably  the  unexpected, 
possibly  treasure. 

You  see  now  how  matters  stand  at  the 
moment.  Therefore  we  will  on  with  the 
further  story. 


CHAPTER  V 

GOOD   COMRADESHIP 

DIPPO  the  Page  had  struck  up  a  friendship 
with  Peregrine  the  Jester.  It  had  been, 
I  take  it,  a  case  of  friendship  at  first  sight.  A 
merry  youngster  was  Pippo,  saucy  after  the 
manner  of  boys,  yet  winning  for  all  that.  He 
alone  of  the  court  was  no  slave  to  Isabel;  he 
did  her  bidding  as  it  behooved  him,  yet  in- 
different to  her  charms,  while  she  for  her  part 
saw  in  him  a  very  child,  not  worth  her  con- 
quest.   Later  we  might  hear  a  different  tale. 

Pippo  had  much  the  same  love  for  the  open 
as  had  Peregrine  in  boyhood,  and  still  had  for 
that  matter.  Yet  Pippo's  rambles  had  taken 
him  but  seldom  beyond  the  garden  and  the 
park.  Now,  with  Peregrine  as  guide,  the 
two  frequently  escaped  from  the  more  cultured 
enclosure,  made  for  the  woods,  the  moorlands. 

54 


Good  Comradeship  55 

Here  Pippo  learned  to  see  with  new  eyes,  and 
truly  spring  is  the  most  welcome  season  for 
the  learning. 

With  Peregrine,  then,  for  master,  with  the 
fair  earth  for  school,  with  sweet  springtime 
for  the  hour,  Pippo  made  vast  progress  in 
conning  Nature's  book.  Under  this  master's 
tuition  it  ever  held  for  the  boy  something 
truly  akin  to  magic.  With  unerring  divina- 
tion he  had  been  led  to  the  hollows  where  the 
first  primrose  bloomed,  where  the  first  wind- 
flower  swayed  its  fragile  head  in  the  breeze, 
and  this  long  before  the  majority  of  mortals 
had  a  hint  of  blossoming  and  burgeoning. 
Later,  together  they  had  gazed  at  the  marvel  of 
cup-shaped  nest  in  forked  branch  or  sunny 
bank,  seen  therein  the  eggs  blue  or  mottled 
brown  as  the  case  might  be. 

Once  in  the  earlier  hours  of  their  friendship, 
it  being  then,  I  fancy,  not  eight  days  old,  the 
two  had  fallen  in  with  an  aged  shepherd,  one 
blowy  evening  of  sleet  and  rain.  Together 
they  had  gone  a-lambing  with  him,  scouring 
the  darkling  fields  for  the  scattered  ewes,  their 


56  The  Jester 

ears  alert  to  the  cry  of  the  new-born  lambs. 
Here  Peregrine  had  been  the  surest  guide,  the 
quickest  to  catch  the  cry  of  the  life  new-born. 
Once  started  on  their  work  they  had  remained 
at  it  throughout  the  night.  By  good  fortune 
rather  than  good  management  their  absence 
from  the  Castle  went  undetected;  yet  it  was 
a  matter  not  to  be  repeated,  since  the  next 
day  Pippo's  eyes  were  heavy  with  sleep,  his 
brain  too  drowsy  for  his  duties,  whereby  he 
incurred,  and  not  unnaturally,  his  mistress's 
displeasure.  The  arduous  task  consolidated 
their  friendship.  It  was  a  friendship  wherein, 
if  there  was  unbounded  admiration  on  the 
boy's  side,  there  was  something  very  akin  to 
gratitude  on  the  man's. 

Yet  the  greatest  wonder  of  all  in  Pippo's 
eyes  was  the  way  of  Peregrine  with  the  wild 
creatures  of  wood  and  field.  To  see  the  birds 
come  at  his  call,  perch  on  hand  and  shoulder, 
sing  therefrom  as  from  a  very  post  of  vantage, 
to  watch  the  dormice,  the  squirrels  awakened 
from  their  winter  sleep  come  fearlessly  up  to 
him,  this  indeed  was  marvel,  and  marvel  to  be 


Good  Comradeship  57 

held  in  secret  bond  between  them.  There 
was  half  the  joy  of  it.  None  but  they  two 
knew  of  their  sweet  intimacy  with  Nature's 
special  creatures,  those  on  whom  no  man  had 
laid  the  lightest  touch  of  civilization. 

Peregrine,  too,  was  a  wonderful  raconteur 
of  tales,  ofttimes  in  verse,  ever  bathed  in 
fancy.  He  could  translate  to  the  boy's  en- 
raptured ears  the  song  the  thrush  sang  to  his 
mate  in  the  golden  morning  hours,  the  secrets 
whispered  by  the  wind  as  it  moved  among  the 
fir  trees,  or  through  the  rushes  by  the  margin 
of  some  brook, — very  children  both  of  them 
in  mind,  with  hearts  as  young  as  the  sweet 
springtime  around  them. 

One  April  evening  the  two  sat  together  on  a 
grassy  hillside.  Behind  them  was  a  copse  of 
hollies,  firs,  and  beeches,  a  copse  of  deep  under- 
growth and  green  moss.  On  its  margin  stood 
a  cherry  tree,  the  wealth  of  its  snowy  blossoms 
backgrounded  by  a  holly  bush.  Pippo  had 
robbed  the  tree  of  a  portion  of  its  wealth.  It 
lay  beside  him  in  long  graceful  boughs  bur- 


58  The  Jester 

dened  with  white  flowers  and  tender  pink- 
brown  leaves.  To  the  left  on  the  southern 
slope  of  the  hill  were  massed  primroses,  and 
early  bluebells,  pushing  forth  among  spiked 
leaves.  Scattered  at  their  feet  and  adown 
the  grassy  hill  were  cuckoo-flowers,  their  tiny 
petals  most  faintly  tinged  with  pinkish  purple. 
Before  them  lay  the  channel,  blue  in  the 
luminous  haze  which  hung  over  land  and 
water. 

"The  swallows  have  returned, "  quoth  Pere- 
grine, as  propped  on  elbow  he  gazed  out  to 
sea. 

"  Where  ?"  demanded  Pippo  staring  around 
him. 

"They  are  not  here  at  the  moment, " 
laughed  Peregrine.  "I  saw  them  this  morn- 
ing from  my  chamber  window  passing  in 
flocks  across  the  sky." 

"Ah!"  breathed  Pippo  envious.  "I  would 
that  I  had  seen  them." 

"Thou  wert  sleeping,  young  lazy  bones," 
teased  Peregrine. 

Pippo  gazed  straight  before  him  with  ardent 


Good  Comradeship  59 

eyes.  "  Tomorrow  I  will  awake  at  daybreak, 
an  hour  at  least  before  sunrise/ '  he  asseverated. 

"And  to  what  end?"  demanded  Peregrine. 

"To  look  for  swallows  passing  in  flocks 
across  the  sky, "  quoth  Pippo  dreamily.  Then, 
turning,  he  put  a  question.  "How  think  you 
they  know,  far  away  beyond  England,  that 
here  the  winter  is  passed  and  summer  is  at 
hand?" 

Peregrine  smiled,  musing.  "How  should 
I  give  thee  an  answer  as  to  the  thoughts  of 
swallows.  Perchance  the  Blessed  Virgin 
whispers  to  them." 

Pippo  eyed  him.  Albeit  he  had  now  known 
Peregrine  some  ten  weeks  and  more  it  came 
ever  fresh  to  his  mind  that  he  spoke  on  occa- 
sions more  as  woman  or  monk  than  man. 
The  men  of  the  court  were  more  ready  to  take 
the  name  of  God  and  His  Son  on  their  lips 
in  light  oath  than  speak  with  tenderness  of 
Our  Lady  and  the  Saints.  The  boy  saw  in 
this  fashion  something  of  a  sign  of  manhood, 
in  which  he  found  Peregrine  strangely  lacking. 
Yet  noting  the  virile  strength  of  the  man,  the 


60  The  Jester 

firm  swelling  of  his  muscles  beneath  the  close 
hose  and  tunic  as  he  moved  to  sitting  posture 
on  the  grass,  Pippo  saw  in  him — had  his 
thoughts  found  clear  interpretation — some- 
thing of  an  anomaly.  He  had  already  endured 
some  light  mockery  for  his  friendship  with  the 
Jester,  which — though  bringing  a  quick  flush 
to  his  cheek — shook  his  friendship  not  at  all. 
The  loyalty  of  a  child  is  a  very  enduring 
loyalty. 

"Of  what  thinkest  thou?"  demanded 
Peregrine. 

"Nothing,"  returned  Pippo  untruly. 

Peregrine  smiled,  yawned,  stretched  his 
long  lean  limbs,  and  rose  from  the  grass. 
"Let's  onward,"  he  said. 

Pippo  scrambled  to  his  feet.  Picking  up  his 
spoils  of  the  cherry  tree  he  held  them  sheaf- 
like in  his  arms,  a  fragrant  snowy  burden. 
Together  they  descended  the  grassy  slope, 
came  through  a  gap  in  a  hedge,  and  out  into 
a  lane  beyond. 

For  a  time  they  walked  in  silence.  Now  and 
again  Peregrine  glanced  at  the  boy  beside  him, 


Good  Comradeship  61 

his  head  half  hidden  in  the  flower  sheaf  he 
bore.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Pippo  had 
borne  home  cherry  blossom  in  his  arms.  The 
flower  had  become  associated  in  Peregrine's 
mind  with  these  his  days  of  radiant  joy.  You 
see  his  heart  very  full  of  sentiment;  also  he 
was  young. 

They  had  traversed  some  mile  or  so  of  the 
lane  in  this  silence,  when  suddenly  to  their 
ears  came  the  shrill  yelp  of  an  animal  in  pain. 
The  yelp  was  followed  by  another  and  yet 
another,  rising  to  a  sound  that  had  in  it  an 
almost  human  shriek  of  agony. 

"Some  brute  is  ill-treating  a  dog, "  quoth 
Peregrine,  and  he  set  off  at  a  run,  Pippo  close 
at  his  heels. 

A  couple  of  hundred  yards  further  on  the 
road  turned  sharply  to  the  right  to  an  open 
space  of  grass.  Standing  on  the  grass  was  a 
thick-set  swarthy-looking  fellow,  knotted  ash 
stick  in  one  hand,  while  swinging  from  the 
other  was  a  small  mongrel  dog,  bleeding 
and  broken.  The  stick  was  doing  deadly 
work. 


62  The  Jester 

"Brute!"  cried  Pippo  his  cheeks  scarlet. 
Peregrine's  face  was  white. 

The  fellow  started,  the  stick  falling  momen- 
tarily idle. 

"The  cur  bit  me,"  he  muttered,  casting  an 
evil  look  towards  them. 

"Knowing  you  the  greater  cur."  Pippo 
heard  an  unaccustomed  note  in  Peregrine's 
voice. 

"Go  you  into  the  field,"  said  Peregrine 
shortly,  pointing  to  a  gate.  Pippo,  hearing 
the  tone  of  command,  scuttled  through  it 
like  a  frightened  rabbit. 

Yet  once  through  he  was  all  for  seeing  the 
turn  of  matters  on  the  other  side  the  hedge. 
Cherry  blossom  deposited  on  the  ground  he 
scrambled  to  the  top  of  the  bank.  Clinging 
to  the  bushes  he  peered  through. 

"Ah!"  breathed  Pippo,  joy  in  the  soft 
sound. 

Bah!  he  need  not  have  feared  for  Peregrine's 
manhood.  He  hugged  himself  for  glee,  there- 
by nearly  slithering  backwards  down  the 
slippery  bank.    For  the  first  few  seconds  the 


Good  Comradeship  63 

tussle  was  short  and  fierce,  then  actual  conflict 
gave  place  to  naught  but  well-merited  punish- 
ment. Peregrine's  heart  had  flamed  to  a 
white  heat  of  fury.  Five  minutes  later  he 
flung  the  fellow  free.  With  an  oath  the  man 
slunk  off  staggering  adown  the  way  the  two 
had  come. 

Peregrine  crossed  to  the  small  bundle  of 
palpitating  pain  by  the  ditch  side.  Pippo 
saw  his  face.  He  slipped  down  from  the  bank, 
his  heart  beating  hotly.  He  heard  now  what 
had  before  escaped  him,  the  small  shuddering 
moans  of  pain.    Then  there  was  another  sound. 

"Pippo,"  called  Peregrine  a  moment  later. 

Pippo  grabbed  up  his  cherry  blossom  and 
came  through  the  gate. 

"Come  on,"  said  Peregrine  somewhat 
shortly. 

Pippo  fell  into  step  beside  him,  yet  with  one 
anxious  backward  glance  towards  the  ditch. 

"The  dog  is  out  of  pain,"  said  Peregrine 
kindly.     And  Pippo  drew  a  deep  breath. 

They  still  pursued  their  way  in  silence;  at 
the  moment  words  would  not,  I  fancy,  have 


64  The  Jester 

come  easily  to  either  of  them.  Peregrine's 
face  was  still  stern;  Pippo's,  if  you  must  know, 
once  more  gleeful,  something  of  a  grin  de- 
picted on  it.  Since  the  victor  had,  it  would 
appear,  no  vast  satisfaction  in  the  matter  of 
the  recent  encounter,  it  behooved  Pippo  to 
have  satisfaction  for  him,  and  this  he  had, 
very  thoroughly. 

Coming  nearer  the  castle  they  found  them- 
selves by  the  church.  The  door  was  set 
wide  open.  It  was  hard  upon  the  hour  for 
Complin.     Here  Peregrine  paused. 

"  Shall  we  enter?"  he  said,  and  passed 
through  the  porch. 

Pippo  followed  him  nothing  loath,  compos- 
ing the  muscles  of  his  face  into  an  expression 
better  suited  to  the  sacredness  of  the  place. 
Since  Peregrine  had  a  mind  to  pray,  pray  he 
might.  His  own  will  in  the  matter  might  now 
be  safely  accorded  him.  In  Pippo's  eyes  he 
had  proved  himself. 

Pippo  dropped  on  one  knee  before  the 
hanging  pyx,  followed  Peregrine  into  the 
dark  oak  pew.    He  saw  the  candles  gleaming 


Good  Comradeship  65 

on  the  altar,  their  light  commingling  with  the 
waning  evening  light.  And  over  all  was  the 
quiet  awe,  the  brooding  stillness  of  the  Hidden 
Presence. 

A  moment  or  so  later  a  long  line  of  monks 
entered  the  church,  passed  leisurely  into  the 
stalls. 

"  Jube,  dornne,  benedicere,"  began  the 
reader. 

"  Noctern  quietarn,  et  finem  perfectum  con- 
cedat  nobis  Dominus  omnipotens"  came  the 
blessing. 

Pippo   glanced    momentarily    sideways    at 

Peregrine's    profile,    saw    his    face    peaceful, 

grave.     A  wave  of  sudden  warmth  struck  on 

the  boy's  heart,   a  new  admiration  for  the 

man  beside  him.     He  saw  in  him  a  fighting 

saint,  a  very  St.  George,  protector  of  the  weak 

and  defenceless.     Such  another  would  he  be 

himself  in  manhood,  loving  Christ  and  His 

Mother,  champion  of  all  wrong.    The  warmth 

at  his  heart  brought  a  glow  to  his  cheeks.    The 

thought  of  his  friendship  raised  him  in  his 

own  estimation,  which  for  that  matter  was 
5 


66  The  Jester 

at  all  times  none  so  low.  Anon  he  caught 
the  sung  words. 

"  Irascirnini,  et  nolite  peccare.  ..." 

To  the  context  he  paid  little  heed.  Here 
again  he  saw  Peregrine,  saw  him  angered  yet 
without  sin,  thrashing  a  very  burly  fellow 
soundly.  Pippo,  I  fear  me,  paid  but  scant 
attention  to  the  service;  Peregrine  absorbed 
his  mind. 

Later  a  movement  brought  him  back  to  his 
surroundings.  The  monks  were  crossing  to 
the  statue  of  the  Madonna,  there  to  end  the 
week  with  an  antiphon  in  her  honour.  Some- 
what tardily  Pippo  recognized  his  wandering 
thoughts. 

"Salve  Regina,  Mater  misericordice"  he 
sang,  his  clear  treble  joining  with  the  deeper 
voices,  seeking  to  do  atonement  by  the  lusti- 
ness of  his  present  singing.  He  gave  full  ear 
to  the  prayer  that  followed;  crossed  himself 
devoutly  at  the  words,  Divinum  auxilium 
maneat  semper  nobiscum.  Nevertheless  his 
conscience  pricked  him  somewhat. 

The  monks  passed  back  into  the  sacristy. 


Good  Comradeship  67 

The  candles  on  the  altar  were  extinguished; 
the  church  was  now  in  twilight,  through 
which  shone  the  soft  red  glow  of  the  pyx-light. 

Peregrine  moved;  and  Pippo  rose  from  his 
knees.  Half-way  down  the  aisle  he  paused, 
slipped  behind  Peregrine,  went  back  to  the 
statue  of  Our  Lady.  At  her  feet  he  deposited 
his  burden  of  cherry  blossom,  glanced  up  a 
moment  half  shyly  at  the  tender  face  above 
him.  Then  turning  swiftly  he  joined  Pere- 
grine without. 

Peregrine,  full  of  thought,  had  not  noticed 
his  absence.  It  was  not  till  they  were  at  the 
castle  gates  that  he  spoke. 

"What  hast  thou  done  with  the  cherry 
blossom?"  he  demanded. 

Pippo  nodded  his  head  backwards.  "Oh, 
I  left  it  down  there, "  he  replied  airily  enough. 
But  he  did  not  say  that  the  snowy  flowers  lay 
before  the  Madonna  as  a  small  token  of  peni- 
tence for  his  wandering  thoughts.  Instead  he 
spoke  on  a  sudden  in  very  different  fashion. 

"Feel  my  muscle, "  he  said  gravely,  dou- 
bling back  his  arm. 


CHAPTER  VI 


BALDA  THE  WITCH 


HPHE  days  passed  leisurely  up  at  the  castle, 
naught  of  vast  import  to  mark  their 
flight.  June  was  now  in,  the  month  of  roses, 
with  long  sunny  days,  with  nights  of  brief 
duration. 

Isabel,  finding  time  hang  somewhat  heavy 
on  her  hands,  turned  yet  closer  attention  to 
our  Jester.  Her  interest  in  him  had  not 
waned ;  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  it  had  not 
increased.  Recognizing  his  homage,  she  yet 
felt  there  was  that  in  him  which  eluded  her. 
Seeking  to  discover  it  she  found  herself 
baffled.  While  tantalizing  it  yet  spurred  her 
to  further  interest.  Musing  on  the  thought 
in  her  idle  hours  the  desire  to  discover  that 
which  eluded  her  became  somewhat  of  an 
obsession.     She  carried  it  with  her  through- 

68 


Balda  the  Witch  69 

out  the  day,  took  it  to  her  couch  as  bed- 
fellow. 

Her  women  in  these  days  found  her  ill  to 
please.  The  dowager  of  them,  one  time  in 
sort  her  nurse,  now  an  old  dame  who  seldom 
left  her  own  chamber,  never  the  castle,  pre- 
scribed tisanes  for  her  health,  noxious  con- 
coctions of  which  the  chief  ingredient  was  the 
liquid  from  stewed  rosemary,  a  mightily  un- 
pleasant herb  to  the  palate.  Mary  would 
have  her  walk  abroad,  try  fresh  designs  for 
her  embroidery;  and  for  my  part  I  find  her 
simple  prescription  wholesome.  Leonora 
frankly  saw  mere  ill-temper  in  her  peevishness. 
Monica  said  rosaries  for  her,  and  truly  prayer 
may  take  effect  where  all  else  fails.  Brigid, 
very  observant,  said  little,  offered  no  reme- 
dies, but  none  the  less  she  thought  a  good 
deal,  fancied  at  one  moment  her  thoughts 
were  to  some  purpose,  the  next  was  none  so 
sure  of  it.  And  then  the  clue  came  to  her 
hand. 

I  know  not  how  Isabel's  mind  began  to 
turn  upon  the  wise  woman,  so  reputed,  who 


70  The  Jestef 

dwelt  in  a  mud -walled  hovel  in  a  distant  combe 
among  the  moors.  Perchance  she  happened 
at  this  time  to  catch  some  whisper  of  her  from 
an  over-credulous  serving-wench;  perchance 
the  knowledge  of  the  old  crone's  whereabouts 
had  been  with  her  before  this,  and  now  re- 
curred fresh  to  her  mind.  Certain  it  is  that 
Isabel,  brooding,  saw  possibility  of  aid  in 
that  quarter.  The  notion  was  unquestionably 
prompted  by  foolishness,  probably  by  some- 
thing more  evil.  Once  presented  it  conjoined 
with  her  former  thought,  not  to  leave.  This, 
too,  was  a  thought  which  might  be  brought  to 
deed.  Seeing  this  Isabel  was  ready  to  act. 
It  was  not  her  way  to  dally  when  she  saw 
possibility  before  her. 

One  night  sleep  forsook  Brigid's  couch. 
Lying  wide-eyed  and  wakeful  an  oppression 
fell  upon  her,  not  wholly  of  evil,  yet  something 
of  that  brand.  Whispering  an  Ave  she  sought 
to  free  herself  from  it,  yet  to  no  purpose. 
Paternosters,  the  Sign  of  the  Cross  alike 
availed  her  naught.       Moved  by  a  sudden 


Balda  the  Witch  71 

impulse  she  rose  from  her  bed,  went  to  the 
window. 

Below  her  lay  the  garden  bathed  in  quiet 
light.  Beyond  the  shadow  close  beneath  her 
window  she  could  see  clearly  the  expanse  of 
turf,  the  gravel  paths,  the  flower  beds,  all 
softly  illumined  in  the  moon-rays.  Very  still 
she  watched,  believing  there  was  something 
about  to  happen,  yet  unknowing  what  it  might 
be.  At  what  exact  moment  a  figure  emerged 
from  the  shadow  below  her  window  Brigid 
knew  not;  suddenly  she  saw  it,  dark-robed, 
standing  on  the  turf.  For  the  space  of  a 
heart's  beat  the  thought  of  some  earth-bound 
spirit,  some  poor  wandering  ghost  flashed  to 
her  mind,  caused  her  a  second's  tremor.  Yet 
a  tremor  succeeded  verily  by  a  greater  shock. 
The  figure  turned,  glanced  momentarily  to- 
wards the  windows  of  the  castle.  Brigid  saw 
the  face  clearly  outlined  in  the  moonlight,  saw, 
too,  in  the  movement  one  fearful  of  detection. 

Swift  as  lightning  she  turned  towards  the 
room,  threw  garments  upon  herself  with  never 
a  thought  to  their  careful  donning,  slipped 


72  The  Jester 

down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  soft  June 
night.  Here  the  garden  lay  silent,  slumbering, 
no  hint  of  restless  figure  to  disturb  its  peace. 
Some  might  have  believed  themselves  dream- 
ing, illusioned,  yet  Brigid  was  very  sure  of  her 
wakefulness,  her  sanity.  Her  mind  brought 
quick  to  bear  on  possibilities  she  bethought 
her  of  the  wicket  gate  beyond  the  lime  trees, 
which  led  to  the  tiny  copse  fringing  at  that 
part  the  parkland.  It  would  afford  cover  to 
one  desirous  of  crossing  the  park  unperceived 
by  any  watcher  from  the  castle. 

Brigid  entered  the  copse.  Here  it  was 
nearly  dark,  the  moon-rays  struggling  fitfully 
through  the  thick-leaved  branches  overhead. 
Hastening,  yet  warily,  fearful  of  coming  too 
close  upon  the  pursued  and  thereby  discover- 
ing her  pursuit,  she  made  her  way  along  the 
path,  her  ears  alert  to  catch  the  sound  of 
snapped  twig  ahead.  Fearing  imprudence  she 
somewhat  overdid  her  care,  since,  reaching  the 
edge  of  the  copse,  she  saw  the  figure  far  across 
the  parkland,  vanishing  up  the  distant  rise. 

Brigid  caught  up  her  dress,  sped  forward 


Balda  the  Witch  73 

hot-footed.  Two  thoughts  were  in  her  mind 
as  she  ran;  one,  that  had  she  been  closer  on  the 
scent  there  had  been  danger  of  the  figure 
turning,  and  thereby  detecting  her  in  the  open 
space  of  park,  the  trees  being  set  wide  apart; 
the  other,  that,  should  the  pursued  attain  to  the 
cross-roads  up  yonder  before  she  once  more 
gained  sight  of  her,  the  scent  would  be  truly 
lost,  pursuit  well-nigh  hopeless,  since  of  the 
end  of  this  midnight  roaming  she  had  no  ink- 
ling. This  latter  thought  in  mind  she  called 
the  saints  to  her  aid,  and  sped  the  faster. 
Though  sound  of  wind  and  limb  she  was 
breathless  as  she  breasted  the  top  of  the  rise, 
had  perforce  to  pause  a  moment's  space ;  then 
she  was  on  again,  this  time  along  a  road.  Turn- 
ing a  bend  of  it  some  hundred  yards  or  so  from 
the  crossways,  she  saw  the  figure  ahead  of  her, 
and  thereupon  put  up  a  fervent  thanksgiving. 
Slacking  speed  on  the  instant  she  crept  cau- 
tiously along  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge, 
keeping  to  the  rough  grass  close  below  it, 
fearful  lest  the  sound  of  her  footfall  should 
betray  her  pursuit. 


74  The  Jester 

At  the  cross-roads  the  figure  turned  to  the 
left,  Brigid  following  warily  enough.  The 
pace  now  giving  time  for  reflection  other  than 
of  mere  pursuit,  she  fell  to  marvelling  what 
this  mad  ramble  portended.  Had  she  not  ob- 
served the  half-scared  glance  towards  the 
Castle  she  might  have  deemed  Isabel  sleep- 
walking, but  having  seen  it  this  chance  notion 
was  dismissed  with  no  second  thought.  There 
was  purpose  in  this  journey,  and  that  a  very 
definite  one.  But  what  purpose?  Brigid 
cudgelled  her  brains  to  no  end.  A  less  clean 
mind  than  hers  might  have  seen  some  dis- 
honourable meeting  ahead.  Of  such  she  had 
no  thought.  Frankly  puzzled  she  found  no 
solution  of  the  riddle.  Of  what  aid  she  might 
be  in  the  matter  afoot  she  thought  not  then 
any  more  than  she  had  thought  at  the  outset. 
Possibly  at  first  curiosity  had  pricked  her  to 
the  pursuit,  though  to  my  thinking  it  was 
chiefly  some  unconscious  instinct  of  pro- 
tection. 

Presently  the  road  divided,  leftwards  de- 
scending  in   a   gentle   decline,  to  the  right 


Balda  the  Witch  75 

branching  in  a  rough  track  across  the  moor- 
land. Isabel  turned  to  the  right.  Dodging  in 
the  shadow  of  gorse  bushes  Brigid  followed  her. 
Verily  must  the  matter  on  hand  be  of  great 
moment.  For  no  mere  wild  goose  chase  could 
Isabel  be  pursuing  this  desolate  path  at  night. 
Dawning  fatigue  in  a  degree  dulling  interest 
Brigid  began  to  experience  some  slight  tremor 
at  the  loneliness  to  which  she  had  come.  The 
moorland  stretched  before  her  and  on  either 
hand,  a  vast  undulating  space  broken  by  gorse 
bushes,  distantly  fringed  by  woods  lying  like 
dark  patches  in  the  moonlight.  Once,  far  to 
the  right,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  moving 
antlers,  where  a  herd  of  deer  roamed  among 
the  heather.  Awe  at  the  silence  and  stillness 
clutched  at  her  heart.  Again  she  cried  upon 
the  saints.  If  you  will  believe  me,  Brigid  gave 
them  scant  rest  that  night. 

Topping  a  rise  Isabel  began  to  descend. 
Here  the  descent  was  steep,  fell  swiftly  to  a 
combe  bottomed  by  a  small  copse.  By  the 
quickened  pace  of  her  Brigid  believed  she  saw 
her  journey's  end  in  sight.     Her  own  heart 


76  The  Jester 

beat  faster;  fatigue  in  part  forgotten,  interest 
stirred  anew. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  combe  she  saw  a  light, 
steady  in  the  shadow  under  the  hillside. 
Where  there  is  a  light  there  must  needs  be 
some  creature  to  kindle  the  light;  this  was 
Brigid's  judging.  Yet  who  should  dwell  in 
that  lonely  place?  And  why,  greater  matter 
for  surmise,  should  Isabel  seek  the  dweller 
there?  That  she  did  seek  him  or  her  was 
very  certain,  since  unfaltering  she  made  her 
way  towards  the  light.  It  came,  Brigid  now 
marked,  from  a  mud  hovel;  the  flame  gleamed 
yellow  through  an  aperture  in  the  wall. 

Isabel  went  up  to  the  door,  knocked.  Brigid 
crouched  breathless  in  the  shadow  of  a  bush. 
On  the  instant  the  flame  was  extinguished. 
The  aperture  sank  back  into  the  darkness  of 
the  wall.  Brigid  caught  the  murmur  of  Isa- 
bel's voice  speaking.  The  door  was  opened 
cautiously.  In  the  space  she  saw  a  woman's 
figure,  bent,  the  head  thrust  forward.  The 
moonlight  falling  on  her  face  showed  her  of 
great   age.     The   toothless   mouth   trembled 


Balda  the  Witch  77 

and  mumbled ;  the  bleary  eyes  peered  upwards 
from  deep  sockets ;  scant  white  locks  fell  across 
them.  There  came  to  her  ear  a  further  low 
murmur  of  words.  Next  Isabel  entered  the 
hovel;  the  door  was  shut. 

Brigid  sprang  to  her  feet,  the  riddle  well- 
nigh  answered.  Witchery  of  some  sort  Isabel 
had  come  to  seek,  white  or  black,  it  mattered 
little.  White,  it  turned  black  in  the  finger- 
ing ;  black,  it  changed  to  very  filth.  Here  she 
read  the  meaning  of  the  oppression  which  had 
fallen  upon  her,  which  had  held  her  wakeful. 

"St.  Brigid  to  her  aid  and  mine,"  she 
whispered,  making  for  the  window,  peering 
cautiously  within.  To  make  her  presence 
known,  to  attempt  persuasion  in  the  matter, 
would  be  worse  than  fruitless;  that  she  well 
knew.  She  had  not  served  Isabel  three  years 
for  nothing. 

Her  chin  level  with  the  window  ledge,  her 
eyes  sought  the  interior  of  the  hovel.  In  the 
dim  glow  of  a  peat  fire  she  saw  the  room;  a 
bare  place  enough,  mud-floored,  full  of  cob- 
webs and  the  thick  scent  of  peat  smoke.    This 


78  The  Jester 

scent  and  others  more  unwholesome  caused 
a  very  vile  odour.  In  one  corner  was  a  heap 
of  heather  and  dried  skins;  across  another, 
suspended  by  a  frayed  rope,  hung  a  tattered 
curtain.  A  table,  a  bench,  a  chair  on  which 
sat  Isabel,  a  stool  for  the  hag,  made  up  the 
furniture  of  the  place. 

The  two  were  sitting  by  the  hearth;  Isabel 
upright,  distaste  very  much  in  her  bearing; 
the  hag  crouching  towards  the  fire,  holding 
claw-like  hands  to  the  warmth,  muttering  the 
while.  Presently  the  muttering  gave  place 
to  words. 

"Greed,  greed, "  came  the  mumbled  speech. 
"Thou  hast  much;  what  more  dost  thou 
desire  ?" 

"That  which  eludes  me."  The  sound  of 
the  even,  familiar  voice  in  the  vile-smelling 
place  caused  Brigid's  heart  to  beat  anew. 

Balda  the  Witch  laughed,  a  very  mirthless 
sound,  harsh  as  the  scraping  of  iron  on  flint. 

"Wait,  then,"  she  mumbled,  straightening 
herself  on  the  stool. 

In  the  horrid  silence  Brigid  stared  towards 


Balda  the  Witch  79 

the  motionless  figures,  breath  suspended.  Her 
will  beating  back  the  horror  that  was  creeping 
over  her,  she  assured  herself  that  this  was 
foolishness  in  the  guise  of  evil;  yet  the  assur- 
ance brought  her  no  vast  solace.  Further  she 
told  herself,  being  sane  and  healthy  of  mind, 
that  it  was  the  excitement  of  the  midnight 
journey,  the  silence  around  her,  which  had 
wrought  her  nerves  to  a  pitch  of  imagination, 
caused  her  to  fancy  darkness  other  than  mere 
shadow  lurking  in  the  corners.  Yet,  for  all 
that,  she  found  herself  whispering,  "  Scuto 
circumdabit  te  Veritas  ejus:  non  timebis  a  timore 
nocturno. " 

For  a  space  the  silence  endured,  how  long 
she  knew  not,  having  ceased  to  be  aware  of  the 
passing  moments.  Then  on  a  sudden  came  a 
sibilant  murmur,  seemingly  from  so  great  a 
distance  that  it  was  with  fresh  horror  she 
realized  it  issued  from  one  of  the  motionless 
figures  by  the  hearth. 

''That  which  thou  dost  desire  is  above  thee. 
Yet  must  thou  stoop  to  obtain  it.  Thus,  and 
thus  only  canst  thou  grasp  it,  to  wrest  it  from 


80  The  Jester 

the  Power  where  it  lies. "  The  voice  stopped. 
A  moment's  silence  followed  on  the  words. 
Then  once  more  came  the  voice,  rising  like  a 
cry  forced  from  an  unwilling  throat.  "Yet 
who,  with  impunity,  shall  war  with  God? 
I,  even  I,  Balda  the  Witch,  say  to  thee, 
Beware.'' 

Once  more  the  silence  fell.  Brigid  clutched 
the  window  ledge  with  shaking  hands. 

"This  is  all  foolishness  to  the  verge  of  mad- 
ness," she  whispered.  A  certain  loyalty  to 
Isabel,  and,  I  fancy,  terror  lest  the  mere 
mention  of  her  dread  should  draw  it  nearer, 
constrained  her  use  of  a  harsher  phrase. 

Balda's  figure  relaxed  from  its  rigid  pose. 
Bending  once  more  towards  the  fire  she  fell 
again  to  mumbling. 

"Art  -frighted?"  She  stretched  out  one 
skinny  claw,  laid  it  on  Isabel's  wrist.  "  Good ; 
I  feel  no  tremor.  Pride  and  desire  should 
carry  thee  far  along  the  road  I  have  traversed. 
The  hand  is  moist  and  cool.  There  is  no  fear 
here  such  as  kneels  quaking  at  the  window." 
On  the  words  she  turned,  pointing  a  palsied 


Balda  the  Witch  81 

finger.  Her  red-rimmed  eyes,  deep  in  their 
sockets,  looked  straight  at  Brigid. 

Had  Brigid  but  known  how  nigh  on  empty 
of  sight  were  those  bleared  terrible  eyes,  she 
had  ducked  below  the  window  on  the  instant, 
made  for  the  copse,  and  so  escaped.  Knowing 
it  not,  and  seeing  full  accusation  and  discovery 
in  the  pointing  finger,  she  knelt  on,  startled, 
turned  to  stone  by  the  swiftness  of  the 
happening. 

A  moment  at  a  loss  for  Balda's  meaning 
Isabel  still  gazed  at  the  fire,  then  realizing,  she 
turned,  saw  the  white  wide-eyed  face  at  the 
window. 

"  Brigid !"  she  cried,  her  voice  on  a  harsh 
note  of  anger. 

Isabel  went  straight  to  the  door.  Without 
she  confronted  Brigid  risen  from  her  knees. 
The  two  faced  each  other  in  the  moonlight. 

"Spy,"  said  Isabel;  that  and  no  more. 

Brigid,  chin  raised,  uttered  no  word.  She 
looked  very  straight  at  Isabel,  who  cared  not 
to  meet  her  eyes.  There  was  certainly  no 
shame  in  them. 


&2  The  Jester 

Balda  the  Witch  peered  from  the  doorway. 
Well-nigh  devoid  of  sight  she  scented  the 
mental  atmosphere,  found  that  in  the  one 
woman  ill-suited  to  her  liking.  Momentarily 
her  spirit  cowered.  Muttering  an  oath  she 
withdrew,  slammed  the  door. 

"Shall  we  return?"  said  Isabel  silkily. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SANCTUARY 

'"THE  Lady  Abbess  of  Sangdieu,  having 
heard  vespers,  was  about  to  return  to  her 
own  chamber,  when  word  was  brought  her 
that  one  Mistress  Brigid  Carlisle  was  in  the 
parlour  seeking  audience  of  her. 

"My  niece!"  said  the  Abbess  surprised,  and 
startled  for  the  moment  from  her  customary 
equability  of  bearing. 

"Even  so,  Reverend  Mother,"  replied  the 
nun.  "She  has  ridden  hence  it  would  seem 
from  some  distance,  attended  but  by  a  couple 
of  serving-men." 

"Ah!"  quoth  the  Abbess  pondering.  Then 
briefly,  "Tell  my  niece  I  will  be  with  her 
presently. "     Thereupon  the  nun  withdrew. 

A  handsome  old  lady  was  this  Abbess  of 
Sangdieu;  a  rigid  disciplinarian,  stern,  yet  with 

83 


84  The  Jester 

no  small  strain  of  tenderness  in  her  heart  when 
you  had  found  your  way  to  it.  Exceeding  just, 
methinks  she  carried  her  sternness  further 
towards  herself  than  towards  those  over  whom 
she  had  the  rule.  Of  high  rank,  and  very 
well-bred  in  courtesy  that  virtue  extended 
itself  throughout  her  domain ;  flowing  naturally 
from  the  head  it  permeated  those  under  her. 
Also,  and  this  grace  is  by  no  means  as  common 
as  some  men  would  have  us  believe,  she 
possessed  humour.  Descending  to  the  par- 
lour she  found  Brigid  therein,  white-faced 
and  travel  worn. 

"Well,  child,* '  she  said,  giving  her  cheek  to 
be  kissed,  "and  what  brings  you  here?" 

"  The  desire  for  sanctuary,"  said  Brigid  very 
weary. 

"Ha!"  The  old  lady  glanced  sharply  at 
her,  read  fatigue  in  every  feature.  Hospitality 
stirred  quick  within  her.  "First  you  must 
eat,"  she  said.  "Your  story,  for  I  see  you 
have  one,  will  keep.     I  will  hear  it  anon. " 

Ringing  a  handbell,  which  was  answered 
by  a  lay  sister,  she  ordered  food  and  wine  to  be 


Sanctuary  85 

brought.  While  waiting  for  its  coming  she 
put  a  question. 

"How  came  you  hither ?" 

"On  horseback,"  replied  Brigid.  "The 
two  men  who  rode  with  me  are  housing  in 
the  village.     They  will  return  at  daybreak. " 

"Ah,"  mused  the  Lady  Abbess.  And  a 
silence  fell  on  the  parlour. 

A  pleasant  place  it  was,  long  and  narrow, 
redolent  of  the  cleanly  smell  of  beeswax.  The 
floor,  very  polished,  bespoke  good  work  with 
that  material  on  the  part  of  the  lay  sisters. 
Three  windows  looked  on  to  the  garden.  Roses 
climbing  round  them  nodded  crimson  and 
yellow  heads  towards  the  room,  their  scent 
mingling  with  the  smell  of  the  beeswax.  At 
one  end  was  an  open  hearth,  above  which,  on 
the  wall,  hung  a  white  Figure  on  an  ebony 
cross.  A  couple  of  pictures,  some  half-dozen 
chairs,  and  a  deal  table  much  scrubbed,  made 
up  the  furniture.  Bare  enough  truly,  yet 
breathing  an  atmosphere  of  homeliness  and 
peace.  Brigid  found  in  it  a  very  haven  of 
rest.     Her  tensioned  nerves  began  to  relax. 


86  The  Jester 

The  lay  sister  appearing  with  a  tray  the 
Abbess  roused  herself  to  briskness.  "Come, 
child,  you  must  eat.  Your  face  is  as  white  as 
a  kerchief.  I  would  fain  see  a  little  colour  in 
your  cheeks. " 

While  Brigid  plied  her  knife  and  fork,  she 
fell  to  studying  her  breviary,  judging,  and 
rightly,  the  girl  would  fare  better  deeming 
herself  unwatched.  Nevertheless  her  eyes 
were  not  wholly  occupied  with  the  book. 
What  she  saw  in  Brigid's  face  caused  her  some 
perplexity,  though  her  manner  gave  no  ink- 
ling of  it.  It  was  seldom  the  Lady  Abbess's 
way  to  speak  of  what  she  saw;  never  on  the 
instant.  This  gave  time  for  seeing  further, 
for  weighing  and  for  judging  accurately. 
Thoughts  surprised  by  another  before  they 
have  come  to  full  purpose  have  a  way  of 
taking  sudden  flight.  Fearful  of  capture  they 
fly  on  approach,  and  thereby  good  may  be 
lost.     The  meal  ended  she  laid  the  book  aside. 

41  Now,"  she  said,  speaking  cheerfully, "  canst 
tell  me  thy  story?  Thy  face  is  somewhat 
less  like  a  washed-out  dish-cloth. " 


Sanctuary  87 

"The  Lady  Isabel  desires  my  services  no 
longer, "  replied  Brigid  briefly. 

II  Indeed !"  The  Abbess's  tone  was  some- 
what grim.  "And  for  what  reason  doth  she 
no  longer  require  them?  " 

"I  have  displeased  her." 
"Ah!"     The  old  Abbess  bent  eagle  eyes 
upon  the  girl.     "And  is  her  displeasure  just?  " 

II I  trow  not, "  said  Brigid  very  low. 
"Tell  me,"  said  the  Abbess  briefly. 
Brigid     looked     towards     the     windows. 

Through  them,  in  the  quiet  garden,  she  saw 
two  nuns  walking.  Beyond  lay  a  yew  hedge; 
beyond  that  again  a  low  line  of  hills,  blue 
against  the  sky.  A  thrush  was  singing  in 
an  elm  tree. 

"Tell  me,"  repeated  the  Abbess. 

"Madam,  the  story  in  its  entirety  is  hers, 
not  mine.  I  saw  that  which  she  desired  not 
that  I  should  see;  I  heard  that  which  she  de- 
sired not  that  I  should  hear.  She  was  my 
mistress.  For  three  years  I  received  kindness 
at  her  hands.  Therefore,  for  the  telling, 
what  I  have  said  must  suffice, " 


88  The  Jester 

The  Abbess  nodded.  Her  mouth  took  on 
a  line  of  grim  approval.     She  liked  loyalty. 

"Good;  it  shall  suffice.  And  now  what  do 
you  propose?*' 

"To  remain  here. "  Brigid's  voice  was 
steady,  though  her  face  flushed. 

"Ah!    And  in  what  capacity? " 

"Madam,  as  nun." 

The  old  Abbess  looked  up  verily  surprised. 
"Hoity  toity,  child;  a  nun  is  not  made  in  a 
moment.     'Tis  a  question  of  vocation. " 

"I  seek  mine. " 

The  Abbess  pondered.  "The  desire  is 
sudden.' ' 

"When  God  has  a  door  to  open  methinks 
He  can  throw  it  wide  on  the  moment  an'  He 
will.  'Tis  every  whit  as  simple  to  His  power 
as  a  piecemeal  opening. " 

The  Abbess  chuckled  inwardly.  She  found 
in  her  niece's  character  something  very  akin 
to  her  own.  Yet  she  replied  gravely  enough. 
"'Tis  true;  yet  must  we  be  sure  'tis  God's 
Hand  on  the  door  and  not  our  own. " 

"That,"  quoth  B rigid  very  calmly,  "may 


Sanctuary  89 

later  be  judged  by  you  and  the  novice  mis- 
tress. " 

Again  the  Abbess  smiled,  this  time  openly. 
"You  go  apace,  child.  We  have  not  yet 
decided  to  accept  you  for  your  postulancy. 
True,  from  the  world's  standpoint,  you  have 
no  permission  to  ask  save  mine,  since  your 
parents  are  dead, — God  rest  their  souls.  Well, 
well,  we  must  see.  My  Lord  Cardinal  Fal- 
conieri  proposes  honouring  the  Minster  with  a 
visit  some  ten  days  hence.  We  will  have  his 
opinion  on  the  matter.  Till  then  certainly 
thou  must  bide  here.  Thou  lookest  as  if  the 
quiet  of  our  house  will  stand  thee  in  no  ill 
stead. "  Then  rising,  "Come  with  me,"  she 
said.     "I  will  take  thee  to  thy  chamber. " 

She  led  the  way  along  cool  passages,  up 
wide  oak  stairs.  Opening  a  door  she  entered 
a  room  facing  west.  The  sun,  not  yet  fully 
waning,  poured  through  the  window.  It  lay 
golden  along  the  floor  and  on  the  white-washed 
walls.  Brigid  looked  around  her.  Here  was 
the  same  peace,  the  same  homeliness  she  had 
found  in  the  parlour  below. 


90  The  Jester 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,  Madam,"  she 
said,  her  voice  faintly  a-tremble. 

"Tut,  child.  Art  thou  not  my  own  kin? 
Yet  wert  thou  the  veriest  stranger  I  must 
needs  give  thee  shelter,  since  thereby  I  might 
be  entertaining  an  angel  unawares.  Not  that 
I  find  thee  exceeding  like  to  one.  I  know  thee 
and  thy  madcap  ways  over  well  for  that 
mistake.  Mind,  child,  no  word  of  this  thy 
purpose  to  any  save  myself.  Now  I  will  send 
Sister  Bona  to  see  that  thou  hast  all  necessaries. 
Haste  thee  to  thy  couch,  child;  thou  art  sadly 
weary.  Christ  have  thee  in  His  keeping." 
This  time  she  offered  not  her  own  cheek  for 
salute,  but  kissed  the  girl  on  the  forehead. 
Then  she  left  her. 

On  her  departure  Brigid  crossed  to  the 
window,  stood  awhile  looking  out,  yet  with 
unseeing   eyes. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

COUNCIL    AT    SANGDIEU 

LJIS  Eminence  John  Felix  Maria  Cardinal 
Falconieri  having  arrived  at  the  Minster 
with  such  dignity  of  retinue  as  befitted  a 
Prince  of  the  Church,  was  closetted  with  the 
Lady  Abbess. 

A  small,  very  old  man  this  Lord  Cardinal,  at 
first  sight  you  would  have  seen  nothing  re- 
markable in  him.  On  first  sight,  I  say,  and 
that  advisedly.  Looking  again,  an'  you  were 
so  minded,  you  would  have  guessed  aristo- 
cracy in  the  thin-featured  face,  read  kindliness 
in  the  mouth,  shrewdness  in  the  eyes,  intellect 
in  the  forehead,  and  I  am  very  sure  deter- 
mination in  the  chin.  Had  you  received 
speech  of  him,  you  would  have  left  mere  sur- 
mise for  certainty,  and  have  added  thereto  a 
knowledge  of  his  personality,  his  power. 

91 


92  The  Jester 

Yet,  for  all  that,  you  would  have  found  him 
what  he  truly  was,  exceeding  simple  hearted. 
A  stately  progress,  much  retinue,  irked  him 
hugely.  Yet  he  suffered  the  irksomeness  on 
occasions,  urged  thereto  by  his  chaplain,  who 
recognized  the  dignity  of  his  master  vastly 
better  than  did  the  master  himself;  who  held 
also  that  he  knew  very  well  what  was  good 
for  both  spiritual  prince  and  subject.  This 
prince's  pleasure,  and  one  he  occasionally 
indulged  in,  was  to  escape  in  a  manner  tem- 
porarily from  his  rank  in  the  Roman  hier- 
archy, play  incognito  the  part  of  simple  priest. 

There  was  a  certain  little  church  set  on  the 
edge  of  a  forest,  above  a  village  containing 
some  few  hundred  souls.  Here  at  times  he 
found  the  sheer  simplicity  he  desired.  Its 
priest  dismissed  to  gain  recreation  an*  he 
would  in  some  wider  sphere,  the  Cardinal  took 
upon  himself  his  duties.  Here  he  said  his  daily 
Mass  to  the  sound  of  the  wind  which  whispered 
or  shrilled  through  the  forest  trees  according 
to  the  season,  assoiled  the  souls  of  the  village 
folk,  gave  them  the  Body  of  Christ  to  their 


Council  at  Sangdieu  93 

refreshment;  while  never  a  breath  of  his  true 
title  got  afloat.  As  Father  Felix  he  was  known 
among  them;  and,  if  you  will  believe  me,  they 
looked  to  his  coming  very  willingly. 

This  little  matter  is  not  one  which  is  set 
forth  by  his  biographers,  Had  they  got  wind 
on  it  they  would  doubtless  have  fashioned  a 
very  pretty  tale  therefrom,  garnished  it  out 
of  all  likeness  of  the  simple  truth.  Hearing  it 
not,  however,  it  is  omitted  from  their  pages. 
You  have,  therefore,  but  my  word  for  it. 

Sitting  now  in  a  straight-backed  arm-chair 
he  thoughtfully  surveyed  an  image  of  Our 
Lady  on  an  oak  bracket  opposite  to  him,  lend- 
ing ear  the  while  to  the  Abbess's  discourse.  A 
brief  discourse  truly.  It  was  not  her  way  to 
use  two  words  where  one  sufficed,  to  elabo- 
rate unnecessarily.  Clear-brained  herself  she 
looked  for  a  like  clarity  in  those  with  whom 
she  conversed.  Finding  it  frequently  absent 
she  prayed  for  patience.  On  this  occasion  no 
such  prayer  was  needed. 

Her  discourse  ended  she  fell  to  silence. 
Having  said  her  say  she  left  the  verdict  to 


94  The  Jester 

other  lips.  An  upright  old  figure,  hands 
hidden  in  the  sleeves  of  her  gown,  she  sat 
waiting. 

To  another  than  the  Abbess  it  might  have 
appeared  that  her  discourse  had  fallen  on  deaf 
ears,  or  at  the  least  on  ears  for  the  moment 
closed  to  external  sounds,  since  no  reply  fol- 
lowed on  her  words.  You  might  have  said, 
watching  the  Cardinal's  face,  that  his  wits  had 
gone  a- wool-gathering.  Not  so  the  Abbess. 
Perfectly  serene  she  awaited  the  response  she 
knew  would  come.  Quiet  reigned  throughout 
the  place;  within  the  room  entire,  without 
broken  only  by  an  occasional  footfall  in  the 
passage,  by  the  faint  jingle  of  beads  as  they 
swayed  at  the  waist  of  some  passing  nun,  or 
the  liquid  note  of  pigeons  from  the  roof  of  the 
Minster. 

Presently  the  Cardinal  roused  himself. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said  smiling,  "send  the 
child  to  me." 

Brigid  entering  anon  saw  a  small  tired- 
looking  old  man  sitting  in  a  chair,  his  face 


Council  at  Sangdieu  95 

towards  the  window.  On  her  entrance  he 
turned,  and  she  saw  no  fatigue  in  the  blue 
eyes.  Kneeling  she  kissed  his  hand.  He 
murmured  words  of  blessing.    Then — 

"Be  seated,  child,"  he  said. 

He  shifted  his  position,  looked  more  directly 
at  her. 

"So  thou  hast  left  the  Lady  Isabel?" 

"Aye,  my  Lord." 

"And  for  what  reason?" 

"Sir,  she  desired  my  services  no  longer." 
Here  was  the  same  reply  she  had  given  to  her 
aunt  the  Abbess. 

The  Cardinal  put  his  hand  up  to  his  chin, 
looked  at  her  very  shrewdly. 

"And  perchance  thou  no  longer  desirest 
to  serve  her?"  Here  was  a  bow  drawn  at  a 
venture,  but  the  shaft  shot  very  near  the 
mark. 

"My  Lord — "  stammered  Brigid  reddening. 

"Suppose  I  hear  the  tale,  my  child. " 

"It  is  not  wholly  mine,  my  Lord. " 

The  Cardinal  smiled.  "Well,  we  will  leave 
it.      The  matter  to  my  seeing  stands  thus. 


96  The  Jester 

Thou  hast  displeased  her,  and  thou  art  not 
wholly  pleased  with  her. " 

"My  Lord,  I  am  very  ill-pleased  with  her." 

He  laughed.  "At  least  thou  art  candid, 
child.  Now  tell  me  truly,  was  there  aught 
of  pique  in  thy  leaving  the  Castle." 

"None,  my  Lord."  The  reply  was  ready 
enough.  "I  saw  that  she  would  not  have  me 
see,  I  heard  that  she  would  not  have  me  hear. 
For  that  she  liked  me  not,  nor  truly  did  I  like 
her.  I  can  no  longer  give  her  my  service 
whole-heartedly,  nor  does  she  desire  what 
lesser  service  I  might  give  her.  Therefore  am 
I  here."  Again  the  reply  she  had  given  the 
Abbess,  yet  this  time  going  further. 

"Ah!"  The  fragile  old  hand  beat  lightly 
on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  "And  here  thou 
desirest  to  be  a  nun. " 

"That  is  my  desire." 

"A  sudden  desire,  child." 

"Sir,"  said  Brigid  very  low  and  earnest, 
"may  not  Our  Lord  speak  suddenly  an*  He 
will?" 

"Very  true,"  replied  the  Cardinal,  "an*  it 


Council  at  Sangdieu  97 

be  indeed  His  voice  and  not  thy  own  heart 
speaking." 

Brigid  remained  silent.  The  Cardinal  bent 
kindly  eyes  towards  her,  read  clearly  resolve 
in  the  small  square  face.  Musing,  he  shifted 
ground. 

"Nuns  pray  much,"  he  said  warningly. 
"  Thy  aunt  hath  told  me  that  on  former  oc- 
casions when  thou  hast  visited  the  Minster 
prayer  was  none  so  greatly  to  thy  liking." 

" Mayhap,  my  Lord,"  said  Brigid  sweetly, 
"  I  can  acquire  liking.     Here  is  a  good  school." 

The  Cardinal's  eyes  twinkled.  Memory 
turning  backward  many  years  he  saw  the  Lady 
Abbess  herself  before  him,  heard  spoken  words. 

"Methinks,  daughter,"  here  was  memory 
speaking,  "thou  lackest  meekness,  a  quality 
possessed  by  nuns. " 

"Then,  Father,  it  were  well  I  seek  it  where 
it  dwells  so  willingly." 

Here  he  found  a  repetition  of  that  little 
scene. 

"I  am  also  told,  child,"  he  continued, 
banishing  memory  for  the  moment,  testing 


98  The  Jester 

her  replies,  "that  thou  art  over-merry.  Nuns 
are  sober-minded." 

"Methinks,  my  Lord,"  quoth  Brigid  de- 
murely, "that  devotion  on  one  note  alone 
may  prove  a  very  monotonous  chant." 

Again  the  Cardinal's  eyes  twinkled.  He 
liked  the  spirit  that  could  find  quick  reply, 
fancied  he  saw  here  material  other  than  usual 
for  Sister  Gabrielle  the  Novice  Mistress,  for 
all  that  saw  her  fashioning  it  willingly  and 
to  good  purpose.  Matters  were  not,  however, 
wholly  to  his  mind.  Well- versed  in  dealing 
with  mankind  the  girl's  resolve  was  very 
patent  to  him.  He  would  learn  further  what 
had  brought  the  resolve  to  light. 

"  Child,"  he  said  on  a  sudden  very  grave, 
"thou  hast  told  me  little  that  is  in  thy  mind. " 

Brigid  looked  towards  the  window.  "My 
Lord,"  she  said  very  low,  "I  lack  words." 

"Find  those  thou  canst,"  he  said  kindly. 
"  Perchance  I  may  aid  thee  further. " 

Brigid  trembled.  "Sir,  I  have  seen  a  soul 
in  jeopardy." 

"I  have  seen  many,  child.     What  then?" 


Council  at  Sangdieu  99 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  Brigid,  her  voice  thrilling, 
"  thinking  on  the  one  soul  I  thought  on  others. 
I  saw  a  warring  world,  Powers  in  deadly  con- 
flict, Christ  nailed  to  the  Cross  watching  with 
Patient  Eyes.     Sir,  I  would  aid." 

"And  how,  child?" 

"  'Tis  that  I  ask  you,  my  Lord.  Methought 
of  ways  and  means,  and  found  none.  Then 
methought  me  of  prayer.  Sir,  I  am  a  woman, 
I  can  do  but  little.  At  the  Foot  of  the  Cross 
from  whence  Christ  reigns  can  I  not  pray 
with  Him  in  His  Silence,  in  His  Desire  for  the 
souls  of  men?  My  Lord,  I  have  no  words  to 
show  my  meaning.     Can  you  understand?" 

The  Cardinal  looked  not  at  her,  but  at  the 
figure  of  the  Mother  of  God.  "I  understand 
very  well.  Thou  hast  found  words  enough. 
And  is  that  all?" 

"All  for  which  I  can  find  the  words,  my 
Lord." 

The  Cardinal  leaned  back  slowly  in  his  chair. 
On  the  wall  opposite  him  the  sunlight  lay  in  a 
brilliant  patch  creeping  slowly  upwards  toward 
the  blue-robed  figure  on  the  oak  bracket.     A 


ioo  The  Jester 

silence  endured  a  little  space,  a  silence  very- 
pregnant  with  unuttered  thoughts.  Anon  he 
roused  himself,  spoke  almost  briskly. 

"Well,  child,  thou  knowest  Our  Lord  de- 
mands service  in  general  from  all  souls,  in 
particular  from  some.  It  would  seem  possible 
that  He  hath  asked  of  thee  an  especial  token 
of  thy  love  towards  Him.  Whether  it  is  pre- 
cisely what  those  dost  believe  it  to  be  can- 
not be  decided  on  the  instant.  Yet  for  my 
part  I  see  no  hindrance — since  thou  hast  no 
earthly  ties  to  bind  thee — to  our  putting  the 
question  to  the  test.  Your  part  will  be  a 
very  detailed  obedience. "  He  looked  at  her 
very  kindly  as  she  knelt  to  kiss  his  hand.  On 
her  departure  he  fell  again  into  reverie. 

Later  he  spoke  to  the  Lady  Abbess. 

"Finding  a  certain  likeness  in  the  girl," 
quoth  he  with  his  shrewd  old  smile,  "methinks 
we  may  fashion  as  very  excellent  a  nun  from 
the  niece  as  the  aunt  hath  proved  herself." 

"Truly,  my  Lord,"  retorted  the  old  lady, 
"  with  my  aid  to  the  balance  in  the  matter  I 
trust  you  will  fashion  a  better  one." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  CASTING  OF  THE  NET 

OYALTY  holding  Brigid  silent  concerning 
*~*  certain  matters  between  her  and  the 
Lady  Isabel,  we,  owing  none,  may  well  probe 
somewhat  further,  though  doubtless  the  man- 
ner of  the  happening  is  already  patent  to 
you. 

Isabel  had  found  discovery  exceeding  un- 
pleasant to  her  mind.  A  hidden  good  dis- 
closed may  irk  men  somewhat,  a  hidden  evil 
disclosed  will  irk  them  very  surely.  Isabel 
brooked  it  not  at  all.  Anger  possessed  her 
soul.  Hereafter  she  would  ever  see  reproach 
in  the  girl's  eyes,  read  condemnation  in  her 
very  silence.  So  unpleasant  a  state  of  things 
was  assuredly  not  to  be  suffered.  Nor  was 
it  discovery  alone  that  displeased  her.  Con- 
science   pricking    tardily    showed    her    that 

IOI 


io2>  The  Jester 

night's  work  as  very  ill.  Compunction  in  a 
manner  was  present  with  her,  yet  no  true 
sorrow.  Desirous  of  forgetting  it  she  was 
willing  to  profit  by  what  knowledge  it  had 
brought  her.  Yet  forgetfulness  were  im- 
possible with  Brigid's  eyes  to  remind  her  of  it. 

Her  spirit  rebelled  at  the  thought.  She 
would  have  all  men  see  in  her  the  perfection 
she  desired  them  to  perceive.  An'  she  could 
not  lull  Brigid's  mind  to  a  like  forgetfulness, 
wake  once  more  in  her  the  full  homage  she 
believed  ever  to  have  received  of  her,  she 
desired  her  presence  no  longer.  There  was 
the  matter  very  plainly.  It  lay  wholly  be- 
tween her  and  the  girl.  The  warfare — for 
such  after  a  manner  it  became — had  place  in 
private.  It  was  of  brief  duration.  To  out- 
ward seeming  Isabel  was  the  victor,  yet  to  my 
thinking  it  was  Brigid  who  had  triumphed, 
since  never  for  an  instant  had  Isabel's  will 
gained  the  mastery  over  hers. 

A  faint  whisper  of  evil,  very  subtly  set 
afloat,  caused  the  court  to  look  askance  at 
her.     Some  few  cried,  "I  cannot  believe  it," 


The  Casting  of  the  Net  103 


yet  rather  in  false  piety  than  as  true  statement 
of  disbelief.  Certainly  the  evil  remained  un- 
proven,  since  none  sought  to  prove  it,  caring 
little  in  the  matter.  As  for  Brigid,  the  whisper 
was  too  faint  to  gain  her  ears.  Later  it  grew 
somewhat  louder,  when  she  was  beyond  its 
reach.  Then  it  was  left  to  Mary  Chester  to 
defend  her,  which  she  did  right  royally. 

In  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  Brigid 
rode  away,  the  sun  not  far  above  the  horizon, 
the  dew  yet  heavy  on  the  grass.  Pippo,  his 
arms  full  of  flowers  he  had  culled  for  her  from 
the  garden,  was  at  the  postern  gate  to  watch 
her  depart. 

"God  keep  you,"  he  said  as  she  took  his 
flower  burden  from  him.  Peregrine  using  the 
salutation  at  times  he  now  used  it  himself, 
though  shyly. 

"God  keep  you  too,  Pippo,"  she  said, 
smiling  her  thanks  for  his  gift. 

Anon,  turning  in  her  saddle,  she  waved  her 
hand  to  him.  Mary  Chester's  friendship, 
and  Pippo' s  bright  face  were  her  pleasant  est 
memories  of  the  life  she  was  leaving.     Here, 


104  The  Jester 

too,  were  the  child's  flowers  in  her  arms.     Thus 
she  rode  away  to  Sangdieu,  as  we  have  seen. 

Isabel  rejoiced  at  her  departure,  felt  herself 
free  for  the  matter  she  had  in  hand.  Throw- 
ing aside  all  thought  of  a  certain  night  that 
June,  she  yet  retained  in  part  the  memory  of 
the  words  then  given  her. 

"That  which  thou  dost  desire  is  above  thee. 
Yet  must  thou  stoop  to  attain  it." 

On  the  further  speech  she  did  not  care  to 
dwell.  This  utterance  sufficed  her.  Quick- 
witted, she  saw  very  clearly  the  significance 
therein.  It  behooved  her  merely  to  act  upon 
it.  Here  was  a  delicate  matter,  requiring 
careful  handling.  She  had  no  mind  to  see 
herself  caught  in  the  meshes  she  would  spread 
for  another,  a  thing  just  possible  to  her 
shrewd  thinking.  She  must  throw  the  light 
cords  deftly,  that  no  breath  of  fancy  should 
recoil  them  on  herself.  This,  for  all  the 
seeming  poetry  of  the  task,  would  require 
an  exceeding  level  head,  a  cool  and  very 
calculating  judgment. 


The  Casting  of  the  Net  105 

With  care  she  conned  the  part  she  saw  her- 
self about  to  play,  marked  her  entrance  with 
the  meshes,  made  very  sure  of  her  exits. 
Having  it  to  her  mind  at  her  ringer  tips  she 
waited  for  Chance  to  set  the  stage. 

To  leave  matters  to  Chance  is  at  times  to 
leave  matters  half  way  to  the  Devil.  An'  he 
is  so  minded  he  will  come  the  other  half  to 
meet  them.  Verily  to  my  thinking  he  did 
so  now,  took  them  in  hand  and  arranged 
them  with  age-old  skill,  exceeding  simply. 
And  to  this  purpose  he  used  a  garden  for  his 
first  setting. 

Isabel  walking  in  the  garden  one  morning 
of  soft  air  and  sunshine  saw  Peregrine  by 
the  sundial.  A  favourite  position  this  for  our 
Jester. 

Seating  herself  on  the  stone  balustrade  of 
the  terrace  she  raised  her  hand,  beckoned  him 
to  her.  He  came,  stood  before  her,  his  eyes 
alight  like  a  child's  who  has  been  called  by  a 
close  friend. 

"I  am  weary/ '  she  said  softly. 


106  The  Jester 

"Truly,  Madam !"  quoth  Peregrine  very- 
astonished.  Here  was  no  day  for  weariness. 
Sun-kissed,  splendid  in  light  and  colour,  the 
earth  breathed  vitality  and  joy. 

"Of  my  own  company, "  said  Isabel,  smiling 
at  his  look. 

"Madam,"  stammered  Peregrine,  "I  will 
fetch  your  women  to  you." 

She  laughed  outright  very  musically.  "  That 
is  like  to  a  man,"  she  said.  "An*  they  were 
here  I  were  none  the  less  weary."  She 
fetched  a  little  sigh. 

"Madam,"  said  Peregrine  troubled. 

She  looked  across  the  moorland,  sadness 
in  her  eyes.  "Aye, "  she  said  on  a  faint  note 
of  bitterness,  "soul-weary." 

"Madam,"  said  Peregrine  for  the  third 
time,  any  word  but  the  one  hard  to  find. 

"Methinks,"  she  said  very  low,  "that  the 
loneliness  of  a  woman  seemingly  surrounded 
by  many  friends  is  a  very  bitter  loneliness. 
She  looks  for  understanding  and  finds  it  not. 
Those  she  has  counted  as  truest  to  her  may 
ofttimes  play  her  false,  revile  her,  and  leave 


The  Casting  of  the  Net  107 

her.  Yet  to  revile  in  turn  were  ill  done.  She 
must  smile  when  her  heart  is  sore ;  laugh  when 
her  spirit  is  bruised  and  bleeding,  lest 
she  bring  sadness  into  other  lives.,'  She 
stopped. 

"Madam,"  said  Peregrine  very  earnestly, 
anger  towards  Brigid  in  his  soul,  "there  is 
at  least  one  heart  would  suffer  death  gladly 
for  your  sake." 

"Ah, "  she  smiled  sadly,  "at  times  I  have 
dreamed  so.  Yet  where  can  I  put  trust?  They 
offer  me  homage  with  their  lips  yet  none  with 
their  hearts.  Outwardly  they  speak  me  fair, 
inwardly  they  see  me  shallow.  Do  you  think 
me  shallow,  Peregrine?"  Here  was  a  note 
of  pleading  as  from  a  child. 

"Never,"  said  Peregrine  hotly. 

She  looked  at  him  very  strangely.  "An* 
you  speak  so  with  your  heart  in  your  voice  it 
tempts  me  to  believe  you.  You  are  Jester, 
Peregrine;  yet  methinks  the  fool's  motley  but 
hides  the  heart  of  a  loyal  man.  Is  it  so, 
Peregrine?"     She  lingered  on  the  name. 

"Madam,"    said   Peregrine,   the  heart   in 


io8  The  Jester 

question  beating  very  hotly,  "it  beats  in  your 
service  alone.' ' 

"You,  too,  are  lonely?" 

"Madam,  it  was  so  at  one  time." 

"And  now?" 

"Since  you  have  shown  me  favour,  since 
you  have  deigned  to  see  the  man  beneath 
the  motley,  my  heart  has  been  too  full  for 
loneliness." 

"I  think,"  she  said  softly,  musing,  "we 
understand  each  other  very  well.  It  is 
strange,  is  it  not,  it  should  be  so?  I,  Isabel 
de  Belisle,  and  you  a  Jester,  the  meanest  of 
my  household,  so  men  would  say,  and  we 
hold  a  bond  of  understanding  between  us. 
Let  us  not  heed  what  men  would  say.  I  have 
told  you  they  see  me  very  shallow.  Tis 
sweet  to  me  to  think  you  believe  it  not. 
Shall  we  keep  our  understanding  a  secret 
between  us, "  she  held  out  her  hand. 

Dropping  on  one  knee  he  kissed  it  very 
humbly.  Had  she  demanded  his  soul  from 
him  at  that  instant  he  had  given  it,  believing 
it  were  better  in  her  keeping  than  in  his  own. 


The  Casting  of  the  Net  109 

Perchance  she  had  spoken  again,  but  Mary- 
Chester  came  softly  across  the  grass,  saw  the 
two  with  eyes  faintly  troubled. 

Hereafter  there  were  days  of  sweet  glamour 
for  Peregrine.  That  he  was  understood  he 
had  guessed  before  in  part,  as  we  have  seen. 
Here  now  were  the  words  from  his  lady's  very- 
lips.  Of  all  those  who  did  her  service  none 
knew  her  as  he  knew  her,  none  saw  the  depths 
beneath  the  sparkling  surface,  none  saw  the 
heart-loneliness  beneath  the  radiant  smile. 

Days  followed  on  days,  outwardly  the 
same,  yet  holding  many  an  exchange  of 
glances,  many  a  tender  half -uttered  sigh,  now 
and  again  an  unwatched  meeting.  There 
were  hours  in  her  chamber  when  he  sang  to 
her  among  her  women,  each  word  holding  a 
meaning  known  to  the  two  alone ;  hours  in  the 
garden  in  the  full  radiance  of  sun  and  colour, 
when  every  bird  that  sang,  when  every  flower 
that  bloomed  poured  benediction  on  them; 
and — quintessence  of  joy — rare  solitary  meet- 
ings, when  heart  spoke  freely  to  heart  in  low 


no  The  Jester 

tender  words.  Small  wonder  he  forgot  all 
else  in  the  thought  of  her.  Even  Pippo's 
artless  companionship  became  at  times  bur- 
densome to  him. 

So  she  lured  him  on,  saw  the  white  flame  of 
his  adoration  turn  to  red  with  the  fuel  of  her 
giving.  And  softly  day  by  day  she  threw 
closer  meshes  round  his  soul.  Unsuspecting, 
it  struggled  not  at  all,  made  no  attempt  to 
escape. 

Isabel  smiled.  The  Devil,  who  had  set  the 
stage,  I  am  very  sure  laughed.  At  Sangdieu 
Brigid  prayed. 


CHAPTER  X 

WITHERED   ROSES 

COOL!  You  cry  in  your  heart,  and  per- 
chance again,  Fool!  Yet  for  my  part 
I  find  his  folly  in  a  manner  to  my  liking.  I 
had  liefer  see  a  man  prodigal  of  his  gifts, 
though  he  bestow  them  on  an  unworthy  object, 
than  see  him  a  niggard,  grudging  in  his 
giving. 

But,  an'  you  would  know  him  truly,  he 
saw  not  himself  as  giving,  believed  not  that 
he  bestowed  gifts,  believed  himself  merely 
the  recipient  of  them.  Wherein  the  wrong 
lay  verily  was  that  he  forgot  the  Creator  in  the 
created.  This  you  will  have  doubtless  guessed 
already;  it  needs  not  that  I  show  it  you. 

An'  you  call  to  mind  the  prophecy  of  the 

old  sage,  who  read  the  message  of  the  stars 

at  his  birth,  you  will  remember  his  foretell- 
in 


ii2  The  Jester 

ing;  see  Peregrine  here  the  recipient  of 
favours  from  one  of  high  birth,  will  look  to 
their  withering  like  June  roses  when  picked. 
Now  to  the  manner  of  their  withering. 

It  will  be  found  in  the  chronicles  of  the 
Lords  of  Belisle  that  in  a  certain  year  of  Grace, 
on  the  Feast  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene,  one 
Count  Bonaventure  de  Novello  came  to  the 
Castle,  bearing  letters  from  Lord  Robert  to 
his  daughter  Isabel.  It  is  further  shown  that 
he  was  received  with  hospitality,  and  remained 
for  a  time  as  a  favoured  guest  of  the  Castle. 
The  manner  of  his  departure  is  not  so  clearly 
given,  but  one  may  guess  that  he  departed 
in  somewhat  lesser  favour.  Yet  it  is  neither 
his  departure  nor  the  manner  of  it  that  con- 
cerns us  chiefly,  but  rather  his  arrival  and  his 
sojourn. 

A  comely  man  this  Bonaventure  de  Novello, 
so  I  have  heard;  of  average  height,  olive- 
skinned,  and  bright-eyed.  He  could  dance, 
he  could  sing;  he  had  moreover  a  very  pretty 
wit,  and  a  tongue  that  knew  well  the  handling 


Withered  Roses  113 

of  it.  Up  to  a  point  it  stood  him  in  better 
stead  than  rapier,  since  the  tongue  may 
madden  more  readily  than  steel;  the  point 
passed  the  rapier  was  not  lacking  in  its  skill. 
In  the  matter  of  love  he  made  it  not  at  all, 
since  he  got  plenty  without  his  making,  and 
scorned  it  accordingly.  It  was  the  same,  I 
take  it,  with  homage,  liking,  or  any  other 
favour.  Therefore  you  will  see  Isabel  looking 
queerly  on  him  at  the  first,  since  it  was  ever 
her  way  to  receive  willingly  rather  than  to 
give.  Anon  she  began  to  exercise  her  cus- 
tomary wiles  over  him.  Finding  him  none 
too  easy  to  lure  the  task  absorbed  her.  We 
may  see  Peregrine  forgotten.  Here  it  was 
that  his  roses  began  to  wither. 

It  is  no  easy  task  to  show  you  Peregrine  at 
this  time.  Very  silent,  showing  his  mind  to 
none,  one  can  but  guess  at  it.  I  fancy  he 
saw  at  first  in  Isabel's  bearing  but  the  na- 
tural extra  courtesy  to  a  new-comer,  a  guest. 
Found — before  a  stranger — her  apparent  in- 
difference towards  himself  to  be  expected. 
For  a  time  he  suffered  it  gladly,  seeing  him- 


H4  The  Jester 

self  thereby  enduring  a  trifle  of  hardship  for 
her  sake,  and  at  her  will.  Anon  perplexity 
dawned  upon  his  soul.  A  dog  look  crept  into 
his  eyes,  the  wonder  of  a  dumb  animal  who 
believes  he  has  displeased,  yet  knows  not  the 
manner  of  the  displeasing ;  who  holds  none  the 
less  utter  faith  in  his  master.  A  word,  a  look 
at  this  time  would  have  restored  full  buoy- 
ancy to  his  heart.  None  came,  therefore  he 
suffered  mutely. 

"Truly  you  possess  a  very  merry  Jester," 
quoth  the  Count  one  day,  light  sarcasm  in  the 
words. 

"A  dull  fellow, "  said  Isabel  idly. 

"  He  eyes  you  like  a  dog  at  one  time  fondled, 
now  relegated  to  the  courtyard, "  laughed 
Bonaventure.  Easily  uttered,  spoken  wholly 
in  jest,  the  words  shot  very  straight  to  Isabel's 
heart,  dyed  her  face  with  faint  colour. 

"An*  his  sire  had  not  been  Jester  before 
him,  I  would  have  none  of  him,"  she  answered 
a  thought  over-readily.  "  Custom  gave  him 
the  cap  and  bells  which  he  wears,  as  you  per- 
ceive, with  a  very  long  face." 


Withered  Roses  115 

Bona  venture  laughed  again.  "An'  but 
custom  gave  him  the  motley,  methinks  I 
would  override  custom, "  he  responded.  And 
thereupon  turned  to  other  matters. 

His  words,  however,  remained  with  Isabel. 
Plainly,  she  was  weary  of  the  Jester.  Body 
and  soul  she  saw  him  hers;  there  was  no 
longer  aught  to  gain.  Also  she  misliked  very 
heartily  the  dumb  pleading  of  his  eyes. 
Weariness  turned  to  impatience,  impatience 
to  something  akin  to  anger.  What  right  had 
he  to  stir  compunction  in  her?  Her  favours 
were  her  own  to  give  or  withhold  at  will. 
Given,  they  must  be  received  with  gratitude ; 
withheld,  there  must  be  no  whining.  Yet 
Peregrine  had  never  whined;  he  had,  however, 
looked  with  the  eyes  of  a  dumb  dog. 

Sitting  in  her  chamber  she  brooded  some- 
what sullenly  on  the  matter.  After  some 
space  a  thought  came  to  her,  gradually  crys- 
tallizing. Bona  venture  might  perchance  aid 
her  in  dealing  with  the  affair.  Here  she 
calculated  briefly,  lightly.  It  would  entail 
a  slight  wandering  from  the  truth.     What 


n6  The  Jester 

then?  Truth  it  happened  was  of  less  con- 
sideration to  her  than  ease  of  mind.  From 
the  one  thought  she  turned  to  others.  They 
followed  each  other  quickly.  Purposing  to 
wrong  the  Jester,  hatred  followed  swiftly  in 
its  train.  There  is  ever  but  a  step  between 
the  two.  Her  revolution  of  feeling  towards 
him  being  sudden  was  proportionately  strong. 
It  brought  ice  to  her  heart,  not  heat.  This 
is  the  more  dangerous,  since  with  it  there 
is  no  surcharging  of  the  brain  to  unbalance 
thought.  Briefly,  she  would  say  to  Bona- 
venture,  "Rid  me  of  this  man,"  yet  employ 
not  those  words  at  all.  Her  request  simply 
put  in  other  fashion  it  would  remain  to  see 
if  he  accepted  it  with  a  like  simplicity,  if  a 
dealing  that  smacks  very  surely  of  meanness 
may  be  termed  simple. 

Being  alone  with  the  Count  she  spoke  to 
him  very  levelly. 

"A  while  ago  you  mentioned  our  long- 
faced  Jester." 

" Truly,  Madam,  I  did,"  replied  Bona- 
venture,  "yet  have  small  desire  to  mention 


Withered  Roses  117 

him  again.  I  had  as  lief  dwell  on  an  east 
wind  blight." 

Isabel  smiled,  then  sighed.  "An'  my 
father  had  not  given  him  the  post  I  would 
have  none  of  him.  In  his  absence  I  like  not 
to  oust  his  servants. ' '  A  very  dutiful  daughter, 
she  sighed  more  deeply. 

"You  would  an'  you  could?"  he  queried. 

"He  hath  done  no  ill,"  said  Isabel  musing. 
"'Tis  wrong  of  me  thus  to  mislike  him,  and 
foolish  truly,  since  why  should  I  concern  my- 
self with  the  fellow  at  all?  Yet  'tis,  as  you 
say,  the  east  wind  blight  that  causes  me  to 
shiver." 

Bonaventure  smiled.  Truly  the  transpar- 
ency of  her  desire  was  very  patent.  An* 
he  would  he  saw  himself  giving  aid  in  the 
matter.  Considering  a  brief  space  he  decided 
to  take  it  in  hand,  this  rather  from  light  mis- 
chief than  any  ill-will  towards  Peregrine. 

"Truly,  as  you  say,"  said  he  solemn-faced, 
"the  fellow  has  done  no  ill.  'Twere  unjust 
to  hold  him  to  account  for  a  long  visage  and 
a  hang-dog  look.     He  is  also  a  peaceable  man. ' ' 


n8  The  Jester 

"Very  peaceable,"  averred  Isabel. 

"Then  'tis  evident  he  must  bide  here,  since 
'tis  your  father's  pleasure."  He  looked  not 
at  Isabel  as  he  spoke;  but  she,  glancing  side- 
ways at  his  face,  was  by  no  means  so  ill- 
satisfied  at  what  she  saw  there.  Matters  to 
her  mind  were  put  in  train. 

Feeling  them  so,  pity  brought  a  slight  thaw 
to  hatred.  Once  she  smiled  on  the  Jester, 
gave  her  hand  to  be  kissed  on  the  conclusion 
of  a  song  that  pleased  her.  Light  tokens 
truly,  yet  hope  springing  swift  anew  to  Pere- 
grine's heart  the  subsequent  happenings  were 
the  more  bitter. 

One  morning  Isabel  sitting  in  her  chamber 
heard  voices  below  her  window.  The  words 
themselves  reached  her  not,  yet  the  tone  was 
apparent  to  her.  There  was  the  Count's 
smooth,  exceeding  silky;  Peregrine's  hold- 
ing exasperation  for  the  moment  well 
controlled 

Seemingly  unheeding  she  yet  listened  in- 
tently.     Mary  Chester  raised  anxious  eyes 


Withered  Roses  119 

from  her  embroidery;  Leonora  calm  as  her 
mistress,  worked  steadily,  Monica,  paling, 
fingered  her  rosary. 

Anon  the  Count  laughed.  Light  though 
the  sound  was  it  held  a  stinging  note.  Pere- 
grine's voice  rose  somewhat  harder. 

"  Madam,"  breathed  Mary  very  low  some 
unnamed  fear  clutching  at  her  heart. 

Isabel  looked  towards  her.  "Yes?"  she 
queried,  eyebrows  raised. 

11  Tis  naught, "  stammered  Mary  reddening, 
words  halting  on  her  tongue. 

"Ah!"  The  exclamation  came  from  with- 
out. Though  holding  pain,  Mary  detected 
triumph  in  the  sound.  She  moved  very 
swiftly  to  the  window. 

"Madam!"  she  said  again  in  horror. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Isabel  quickly. 

"The  Count  Bonaventure  lies  upon  the 
ground, "  stammered  Mary.  "  Methinks  that 
Peregrine — "  she  broke  off  trembling. 

Isabel  joined  her  at  the  window. 

"Go  below,  see  to  what  hath  chanced," 
she  ordered.    And  to  herself  she  added,  "I 


120  The  Jester 

pray  Count  Bonaventure  hath  not  over- 
reached himself  in  the  matter." 

Ill  news  flies  very  swiftly.  Within  the  space 
of  five  minutes  the  whole  Castle  was  agog 
with  the  happening.  Peregrine  the  Jester 
had  stabbed  Count  Bonaventure.  True  the 
wound  was  not  over-serious,  yet  that  was 
rather  by  good  fortune  than  by  good  inten- 
tion. Some  half  hour  later  Peregrine  lay  in 
the  cellar;  the  Count,  his  wound  bound,  made 
light  of  the  matter. 

"I  can  take  it  none  so  easily,"  said  Isabel 
hard-eyed. 

"The  fellow  should  be  hanged, M  said  Roger 
March,  the  captain  of  the  guard,  very 
bluntly.  These  were  rude  times,  and  Roger 
a  hard-headed  soldier. 

"Bah!"  laughed  Bonaventure  ruefully, 
"'tis  no  matter  for  so  harsh  dealing."  Al- 
ready he  half-regretted  his  part  in  the  affair. 
He  liked  Peregrine  for  his  onslaught;  saw  the 
tongue  a  mean  weapon  to  have  used  for  his 
provoking. 

Isabel's  eyes  narrowed.     "I  cannot  over- 


Withered  Roses  121 

look  it,"  she  repeated  very  cold,  seeing  op- 
portunity slipping  from  her. 

"Shall  he  hang,  Madam ?"  asked  Roger 
briefly. 

"By  the  Lord,  no/'  burst  forth  the  Count. 
"You  will  not  have  a  woman  give  orders  to 
hang  a  man.  An'  he  deserve  punishment 
give  him  a  drubbing  and  dismiss  him  the 
Castle.  So  shall  all  be  satisfied,"  he  added 
half  maliciously. 

Roger  looked  at  Isabel,  awaited  her  pleasure. 

"You  have  heard  the  Count's  words,"  said 
Isabel  very  icily.  "The  injured  may  assign 
his  own  reward  for  the  injury.  I  leave  the 
affair." 

Roger  March  saluted  and  withdrew. 

The  Count,  by  the  window,  drummed 
lightly  on  the  sill  with  his  fingers,  looked  not 
at  Isabel  standing  rigid  by  the  hearth.  The 
mental  atmosphere  held  an  unpleasant  chill. 

Sudden  sounds  broke  the  silence ;  trampling 
of  feet  on  the  stairway,  exclamations  of  anger. 

Isabel  and  the  Count  faced  about  towards 
the  door.     The  heavy  draperies  of  the  curtain 


122  The  Jester 

swung  aside.  Peregrine  burst  into  the  room, 
fell  on  his  knees  before  Isabel. 

"Madam/'  he  cried  thickly,  imploring, 
"I  come  to  crave  pardon.  Allot  me  what 
punishment  you  will,  but  dismiss  me  not 
from  your  presence."  The  words  were  out 
of  his  lips  ere  the  captain  of  the  guard  and 
two  of  his  men  had  gained  the  chamber. 
Beyond  the  swaying  curtain  was  a  group  of 
women  with  scared  faces. 

The  Count  looked  at  the  kneeling  figure; 
the  somewhat  cynical  smile  on  his  lips  was 
not  for  it.  From  the  Jester  he  glanced  at 
Isabel. 

"Take  the  fellow  away, "  said  Isabel. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Peregrine  looked 
up  at  her  face.  Realization  dawned  on  him. 
He  got  to  his  feet,  staggering  like  a  man  dazed 
with  over-much  wine. 

"Your  will,  Madam? "  said  Roger  sternly. 
He  trusted  now  to  find  his  hands  busy  with 
the  rope. 

"I  have  given  you  my  orders  already," 
said  Isabel  harshly. 


Withered  Roses  123 

Roger  March,  grim-faced,  led  Peregrine 
away. 

The  Count  looked  at  Isabel.  Meeting  her 
eyes  very  full  he  smiled  mockingly. 


CHAPTER  XI 

OUTCASTE 

'T'HUS  a  second  time  we  see  Peregrine  dis- 
*      missed  the  Castle. 

Exceeding  sore  in  body,  yet  infinitely  more 
sore  in  mind,  he  lay  in  a  wood  some  two 
miles  or  so  from  the  spot  where  the  last  blow 
had  fallen  upon  him.  Half  fainting  he  had 
dragged  himself  thither.  Roger  March  had 
been  in  no  mind  to  see  light  punishment  dealt 
out. 

For  a  time  a  sort  of  stupor  fell  on  him, 

dulling  in  part  the  pain  of  body  and  soul. 

A   sick  man   half  delirious  he   felt   himself, 

tortured  by  very  evil  dreams.     Mocking  faces 

surrounded  him,  and  in  their  midst  one  face 

very  cold,  looking  at  him  with  eyes  full  of 

scorn  and   hatred.     Then,   for  a  while,   the 

lapse    of    years    escaping    him,    he    believed 

124 


Outcaste  125 

himself  a  child  burying  a  hot  face  in  his 
mother's  gown,  weeping  out  his  woes  in  her 
lap.  Later  he  found  the  lap  to  be  that  of 
Mother  Earth,  her  gown  the  cool  green  of 
the  moss  against  his  cheek.  Turning  his  head 
he  saw  the  green-leaved  branches  above  him, 
had  a  glimpse  of  summer  blue  sky.  This 
brought  him  back  to  the  present.  He  sat  up 
feeling  the  swelled  stiffness  of  his  back  and 
limbs. 

Some  hundred  yards  or  so  before  him  his 
eye  caught  the  glint  of  water  among  the 
trees.  He  remembered  that  he  was  very 
thirsty.  He  rose  stiffly  to  his  feet,  made  his 
way  towards  the  pond.  It  lay  clear  as  a 
mirror,  reflecting  the  trees. 

Peregrine,  kneeling  at  the  margin,  bent  to- 
wards it,  saw  a  haggard-faced  Jester  looking 
up  at  him.  For  a  moment  startled  by  his 
own  reflection  he  drew  back;  then  laughed. 
Hard-eyed  he  looked  at  his  own  image;  on 
a  sudden  saw  himself  Jester  to  Fate.  Here 
was  his  r61e  with  a  vengeance.  He  looked 
at  his  own  face  again,  and  with  new  interest, 


126  The  Jester 

grinned  at  it  a  moment  very  diabolically. 
The  next,  he  dashed  his  fist  in  the  water.  The 
reflection  shivered  to  a  thousand  sparkling 
fragments. 

"To  Fate's  Jester,"  he  cried.  And  he 
drank  thirstily  from  his  cupped  hand. 

A  crackling  in  the  woods  behind  him  brought 
him  to  his  feet.  His  frayed  nerves  tensioned 
he  gazed  towards  the  bushes.  From  among 
them  came  a  small  figure  in  blue  and  silver, 
glancing  anxious-eyed  to  right  and  left.  Seeing 
Peregrine  the  boy  rushed  forward,  flung  him- 
self before  him,  clasped  his  knees. 

" Peregrine,  Peregrine,"  he  sobbed.  "Oh! 
the  brutes.     Would  I  were  a  man!" 

Peregrine  hauled  the  child  gently  to  his  feet. 

"Tut,  lad,"  he  said  lightly,  "'tis  all  in  the 
day's  work." 

The  boy  snivelled  in  his  sleeve.  His 
cheeks  were  very  tear-glazed. 

"An'  thou  wert  the  man  thou  desirest  to 
be  thou  wouldst  not  weep,"  said  Peregrine 
seating  himself  on  the  ground,  drawing  the 
child  beside  him. 


Outcaste  127 

"My  heart  would,"  choked  the  boy. 

Peregrine  finding  grim  truth  in  the  reply 
made  no  answer. 

"I  hate  them  all,"  said  Pippo,  his  young 
face  very  vicious.  At  that  Peregrine  laughed 
mirthlessly. 

"I  will  not  return  to  the  Castle,"  said  the 
boy  stubbornly,  "I  will  come  with  you." 

Peregrine  fell  grave  on  the  instant.  He 
saw  not  a  child  travelling  by  the  road  he  was 
like  to  follow. 

"Nay,"  he  responded  firmly. 

"I  must,"  choked  Pippo. 

"Thou  wilt  return  to  the  Castle,"  said 
Peregrine  very  levelly. 

"Why?"  demanded  Pippo. 

Peregrine  smiled.  "Firstly,  not  being  my 
property  I  cannot  carry  thee  away  with  me; 
secondly,  my  road  is  not  like  to  be  one  for  a 
child;  thirdly,  I  wish  thee  to  return,  Pippo." 

Pippo's  mouth  trembled.  "For  thirdly 
I  will  do  your  bidding,"  he  said  in  a  very 
small  voice.  "I  would  not  for  firstly  nor 
secondly." 


128  The  Jester 

''Good  lad, "  said  Peregrine. 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence. 
Pippo's  face  was  quivering;  Peregrine's  very 
set  and  stern. 

"So,  boy,  it  is  farewell,"  he  quoth  anon. 
Pippo  found  his  voice  too  shaky  for 
speech. 

Peregrine  got  to  his  feet,  the  lad  with  him. 
"I  will  take  thee  to  the  edge  of  the  wood, "  he 
said. 

In  silence  they  made  their  way  among  the 
trees.  In  some  ten  minutes  they  found 
themselves  on  their  outskirts.  Here  Pere- 
grine paused. 

"Farewell,  lad,"  he  said.  "Put  not  your 
trust  in  princes,  as  the  Psalmist  hath  it. 
Pray  to  Christ  and  Our  Lady,  and  live  clean." 
Smiling  grimly  at  the  words  himself  he  had  to 
give  them  to  the  lad.  A  child's  faith  must  be 
left  unshaken.  Peregrine  having  this  thought 
in  mind  doubtless  the  Recording  Angel  made 
tally  of  the  speech  to  his  balance. 

He  kissed  the  boy  twice,  and  without  more 
ado  turned  back  among  the  trees,  mistrusting 


Outcaste  129 

himself     for     further     words.     Pippo    went 
sorrowfully  enough  down  the  hill. 

Peregrine  struck  again  clean  through  the 
wood.  The  Castle  thus  lay  behind  him,  and 
the  greater  distance  he  might  put  between 
himself  and  it  the  better  now  would  he  be 
pleased. 

He  made  his  way  along  the  soft  path,  cool 
green  for  the  most  part,  here  and  there 
scattered  with  dancing  spots  of  gold  as  the 
sunlight  filtered  through  the  branches  over- 
head. On  either  hand  were  tree  trunks, 
straight  as  the  pillars  of  some  cathedral, 
flecked  with  the  orange  and  silver  of  fungus 
and  lichen,  very  brilliant  patches  of  colour. 
It  was  a  silent  place,  quiet  and  restful.  For- 
merly Peregrine's  spirit  had  gone  out  to  meet 
the  spirit  of  the  woods,  to  find  pleasure  in  the 
meeting.  Now  he  found  none.  Disillusion- 
ment pressing  sore  upon  him  crushed  his  soul 
very  bitterly. 

At  last,  after  some  time  of  walking,  he  came 
upon  the  edge  of   the  wood.      Here  it  was 


130  The  Jester 

bordered  by  the  high  road,  very  white  and 
dusty,  the  sun's  rays  beating  full  upon  it.  To 
the  right  it  ascended  somewhat,  to  the  left 
it  sloped  in  a  gentle  decline.  Peregrine  hesi- 
tated. He  had  no  goal  in  view,  nor  sought  to 
have  any. 

While  hesitating  he  became  aware  of  a 
party  of  three  horsemen  riding  at  a  trot  from 
the  leftwards.  He  drew  into  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  to  await  their  passing.  Coming  abreast 
of  them  he  saw  in  the  foremost  the  Count 
Bonaventure,  the  other  two  being  serving 
men.  The  Count  wore  his  left  arm  in  a 
sling,  a  matter  that  Peregrine  marked  with 
no  little  satisfaction.  Allowing  them  to  pass 
some  couple  of  hundred  yards  or  so,  he  stepped 
from  the  wood,  turned  down  the  hill.  He 
had  made  but  a  few  paces  when  the  sound  of 
a  horses's  hoofs  behind  him  struck  on  his  ear. 
He  stepped  quickly  towards  the  hedge.  The 
horse  and  its  rider  pulled  up  along  side  of 
him. 

"I  saw  you  among  the  trees, "  said  Bona- 
venture without  preamble. 


Outcaste  131 

"What  then?"  demanded  Peregrine,  the 
pupils  of  his  eyes  narrowing. 

"Merely,"  quoth  the  Count  lightly,  "that 
I  wish  to  make  you  an  apology." 

"No  need,"  said  Peregrine  shortly. 

"Yet  I  did  you  an  injury." 

"Methinks  I  did  you  one,"  said  Peregrine, 
looking  at  the  bound  arm. 

"Tis  one  will  mend, "  was  the  reply. 

Peregrine  was  silent. 

"Yet,  perchance,"  said  the  Count  musing, 
"the  injury  I  did  you  was  not  so  great  as  at 
first  sight  might  appear." 

"I  find  it  a  benefit,"  said  Peregrine  very 
dryly. 

"Ha!" 

"An'  a  man  pitch  his  tent  on  a  vile  bog 
believing  it  fair  earth  'twere  a  benefit  to  drag 
him  from  it,  even  though  the  handling  be 
somewhat  rough." 

"Oh!"  said  the  Count  amazed,  opening  his 
eyes  wide,  "you  have  seen  that." 

"I  have  seen  more  than  that,"  said  Pere- 
grine. 


132  The  Jester 

"Yes?"  queried  the  Count. 

"I  have  seen  that  you, "  said  Peregrine 
watching  him,  "acted  as  subtly  prompted,  if 
not  fairly  told.,, 

The  Count  stroked  his  chin,  half  whimsical, 
half  vexed.  He  was  not  wholly  pleased  to  be 
named  a  tool  in  the  matter,  which  he  truly  was. 

"I  think  you  have  seen  a  good  deal, " 
quoth  he  ruefully. 

"Disillusionment  clears  a  man's  eyesight/' 
said  Peregrine  shortly. 

1 '  Humph ! ' '  remarked  the  Count.  ' '  Where 
fare  you  now?"  he  demanded. 

Peregrine  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Where 
Chance  leads.     Mayhap  to  the  Devil." 

"An  unpleasant  fellow,"  said  the  Count 
suavely,  "and  moreover  no  gentleman." 

"Truly!" 

"A  very  usurer.  Getting  a  man  in  his 
debt  he  demands  constant  interest,  exceeding 
extortionate." 

"An'  a  man  were  wise  he  would  return 
the  whole  loan  and  have  done  with  the 
matter,"  returned  Peregrine  carelessly. 


Outcaste  133 

"No  man  has  sufficient  capital  for  that 
when  he  once  takes  loan  from  the  Devil,' ' 
replied  the  Count  half  grimly. 

"You  seem  to  have  a  very  good  knowledge 
of  his  dealings, "  said  Peregrine. 

Bonaventure  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I 
have  observed  them  more  than  once,"  he 
said  coolly.  "An'  you  have  no  better  pros- 
pect in  view  than  perchance  to  serve  him, 
will  you  join  company  with  me?" 

Peregrine  shook  his  head.     "No, "  he  said. 

"I  am  barely  surprised,"  returned  the 
Count.  "Yet  I  would  ask  you,  unaccountable 
as  it  may  seem  to  you,  to  come  as  my  friend, 
not  as  my  servant." 

Peregrine  laughed.  "I  put  no  trust  in 
friends." 

"That  also  does  not  surprise  me,"  said 
Bonaventure.  "I  put  not  vast  trust  neither, 
but  take  men  as  I  find  them." 

"Then  you  will  not  find  much,"  retorted 
Peregrine. 

"I  do  not  look  for  much." 

"That  shows  you  wise." 


134  The  Jester 

Bona  venture  laughed.  "Wisdom  is  what 
I  seek.  Perchance  some  day  I  shall  find  her. 
However  since  you  will  not  seek  her  in  my 
company  I  must  e'en  bid  you  farewell." 

"Farewell,"  said  Peregrine. 

"We  part  on  good  terms?" 

"In  no  enmity  as  far  as  I  am  concerned," 
said  Peregrine  carelessly. 

"Then  again,  farewell,"  quoth  the  Count. 
Turning  his  horse  he  rode  quickly  after  his 
men.     Peregrine  stood  looking  after  him. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    WANDERER 

A7W1THIN  a  certain  forest  was  a  Castle, 
hidden  tolerably  deep  within  it.  It 
lay  not  many  miles  from  the  Castle  of  Belisle, 
which  stood  upon  an  eminence.  Though 
hidden  from  it  by  the  surrounding  trees  the 
dwellers  at  Belisle  knew  of  its  existence.  It 
was  named,  so  I  have  heard,  Castle  Syrtes. 
It  had  a  somewhat  unwholesome  reputation; 
it  has  also  been  termed  magical  in  an  evil 
manner. 

You  came  upon  it  by  tortuous  paths  through 
the  forest,  the  outskirts  of  which  were  slushy 
and  boggy  to  the  feet.  Having  passed  the 
outskirts  you  could  find  paths  in  plenty.  De- 
spite their  tortuous  winding  they  led  eventu- 
ally to  the  Castle.  Outwardly  pleasing  to 
the   eye,    built  of  a  reddish   stone   brought 


136  The  Jester 

from  no  man  knew  where,  the  interior  pleased 
the  senses  no  less.  Here  were  marble  halls, 
shaded  bowers,  silken  curtains,  pictures  very 
subtly  painted,  rare  curios  brought  from 
home  and  lands  beyond  the  seas.  Flowers 
within  and  without,  many-coloured  and  full- 
perfumed,  lent  a  sweet  and  somewhat  heavy 
scent  to  the  atmosphere.  It  was  never  wind- 
lifted.  The  winds,  which  at  times  blew 
freely  on  the  outskirts  of  the  forest,  brought 
no  cleansing  breath  to  the  interior.  Per- 
chance the  trees  grew  too  thickly  to  allow 
of  it  passing  between  their  branches;  per- 
chance there  was  some  deeper  reason.  For 
that  you  may  make  what  judgment  you 
choose.  My  part  is  to  set  forth  facts  as  I 
know  them. 

Within  the  Castle  dwelt  a  woman  named 
Thais.  To  my  thinking  she  had  been  better 
named  Venus  or  Aphrodite.  Failing  either 
of  those  names  Thais  suits  her  not  ill-well. 
She  did  not  dwell  alone;  solitude  would  have 
been  by  no  means  to  her  liking.  Guests  she 
had  in  plenty,  and  they  fared  very  luxuriously 


The  Wanderer  137 

at  her  hands.  The  days  were  passed  in  feast- 
ing and  pleasure;  song,  music,  and  wine  lent 
good  aid  thereto.  In  brief  the  existence  was 
one  of  exceeding  soft  luxury. 

At  times  a  guest  wearied  of  the  pastimes, 
found  them  over  sweet  to  his  taste.  Such  a 
one  was  known  now  and  again  to  leave  the 
Castle;  but  I  have  heard  it  given  as  fact,  which 
fact  may  be  noteworthy,  that  he  found  the 
return  through  the  forest  more  wearisome  than 
the  approach.  Thorns  and  brambles,  which 
stood  aside  to  let  him  pass  on  entrance, 
hedged  his  path  sadly  on  departure.  Per- 
chance herein  lay  its  reputation  for  evil- 
magic.  Certain  it  is  the  forest  was  strange, 
very  dark,  and  full  of  a  sweet  sickly  odour. 
No  fresh-scented  flowers  grew  there,  such  as 
one  may  find  in  open  meadows  and  cool 
breeze-swept  woods,  but  curious  orchids, 
spotted  and  twisted,  reptile-like  in  colour  and 
form.  Also  no  song-birds  penetrated  to  its 
depths,  misliking  the  darkness. 

What  brought  Peregrine  thither  I  know  not, 
seeing  he  had  at  the  first  wandered  many  a 


138  The  Jester 

day's  march  from  Belisle.  Possibly  he  circled 
thereto  unheeding  his  route,  knowing  not  he 
was  returning  on  his  own  traces. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  one  evening  at  sundown 
he  saw  the  forest  facing  him.  It  lay  a  dark 
patch  on  the  horizon,  backed  by  torn  clouds 
through  which  the  sunset  sky  showed  red  and 
lurid.  Around  him  was  the  pathless  earth, 
rough  and  very  desolate.  No  sign  of  human 
habitation  was  in  sight.  Rocky  boulders 
flung  up  here  and  there  among  the  coarse- 
grassed  earth  loomed  with  uncouth  shapes 
in  the  waning  light.  To  his  thinking  they 
seemed  cast  there  by  some  mighty  spirit  in 
grim  play;  one,  who,  wearying  of  the  game, 
had  withdrawn  to  some  distant  region,  the 
loneliness  now  emphasized  by  his  one-time 
presence  there. 

Behind  the  forest  the  torn  clouds  began 
piecing  together  in  a  heaped  ominous  mass, 
the  red  light  obliterated.  The  heavy  air, 
exceeding  sultry,  bespoke  storm.  Far  off,  to 
the  right,  he  saw  a  white  road  climbing  a  hill- 
side.    A  bare  tree,  set  where  the  top  of  the 


The  Wanderer  139 

hill  touched  the  sky,  flung  a  couple  of  branches 
wide-spread  from  its  trunk.  Cross-like  it 
crowned  the  summit;  leafless,  dead,  yet  sym- 
bol of  the  Tree  of  Life. 

Peregrine  looked  towards  the  road.  Doubt- 
less it  led  some  whither.  But  where?  There 
was  the  question.  Also  it  was  far  off  and 
very  steep.  A  storm  was  brewing.  Already 
he  could  hear  the  low  muttering  of  thunder. 
To  gain  yonder  road  and  seek  some  distant 
shelter  along  it  would  entail  a  very  thorough 
drenching  before  any  goal  had  been  attained. 
The  forest  was  but  a  quarter  the  distance  from 
him.     He  might  well  seek  harbourage  there. 

Yet,  despite  the  thought,  his  eyes  turned 
again  towards  the  distant  road.  An*  he  were 
sure  of  shelter  beyond  the  summit  of  the  climb 
he  might  risk  the  storm  which  very  certainly 
would  break  upon  him.  For  the  space  of  some 
moments  he  hesitated.  Then  common  sense 
won  the  day.  The  white  road  might  lead 
him  but  on  some  foors  errand.  Before  him 
lay  obvious  cover  from  the  oncoming  deluge. 
He  stepped  out  across  the  coarse  grass,  now 


140  The  Jester 

hastening  his  steps  somewhat.  Nearing  the 
forest  the  grass  became  shorter  and  smoother, 
but  here  the  bog  began  to  show  itself. 

"I  bargained  not  for  this,"  said  Peregrine, 
as  his  feet  sank  into  the  slush.  Even  as 
he  spoke  heavy  drops  began  to  fall;  thunder 
muttered  very  ominously.  A  third  time  he 
glanced  towards  the  distant  road. 

"Bah!"  he  said,  "'tis  too  far  off.  A  sharp 
transit,  and  shelter  will  be  gained."  He 
made  quick  strides  forward.  The  atmo- 
sphere, which  had  been  windless,  was  suddenly 
rent  by  a  heavy  blast.  "Now  it  comes," 
said  Peregrine,  as  the  storm  beat  upon  him, 
and  the  rain  sluiced  down  on  the  sodden  earth. 

"A  very  miry  way,"  muttered  Peregrine 
breathless  as  he  gained  the  margin  of  the  for- 
est, looked  ruefully  down  at  his  feet.  Turn- 
ing, he  looked  behind  him.  Where  had  been 
spongey  earth  were  now  wide  pools,  stung  by 
falling  rain,  whipped  by  slashing  wind.  The 
further  landscape  was  blotted  out  by  mist  and 
quick-gathering  dusk. 

"A  most  villianous  storm,"  said  Peregrine, 


The  Wanderer  141 

"and  it  is  well  I  have  found  cover  from  it. 
Here  I  must  bide  for  a  while  at  least.  There 
is  no  re-crossing  that  morass. " 

Now  he  must  think  what  to  do.  T5  sit 
quiet  where  he  was,  and  watch  the  rain  were 
dull  and  dismal  work.  For  all  that  the  forest 
was  very  dark  it  might  be  well  to  explore 
somewhat  further.  He  turned  down  a  wind- 
ing path.  In  spite  of  the  first  sense  of  dark- 
ness he  was  now  aware  of  a  curious  light 
glimmering  through  the  place.  This  came,  he 
saw,  from  some  strange  fungus  on  the  trunks 
of  the  trees,  which  gave  forth  an  uncanny 
illumination.  It  was  faint  truly,  but  sufficed 
to  show  the  path  before  him. 

As  he  walked,  the  odour  of  the  forest  struck 
upon  his  nostrils,  heavy,  sickly-sweet.  Pass- 
ing to  his  brain  it  dulled  his  senses  somewhat, 
like  the  odour  of  a  powerful  drug.  He  found 
himself  pursuing  his  way  after  the  manner  of 
a  man  half -dreaming,  heedless  now  of  where 
his  path  might  lead.  Half  drowsed  though 
he  was  he  noted  now  and  again  the  orchids 
that  grew  among  the  trees,  saw  their  spotted 


142  The  Jester 

hue,  their  twisted  reptile-like  form.  Despite 
his  drowsiness  he  felt  some  slight  repulsion  at 
the  sight  of  them,  thought  momentarily  on 
sun-kissed  flowers  in  open  meadows.  By  con- 
trast the  orchids  fared  ill  in  his  mind.  But 
sleep  clutching  at  his  eyelids  made  thought  an 
effort. 

He  stumbled  onward  very  heavily.  How 
long  he  walked  he  knew  not.  It  might  have 
been  an  hour,  two  hours;  yet,  time  perchance 
being  as  leaden-footed  as  he,  it  might  have 
been  a  bare  ten  minutes. 

Suddenly,  with  no  volition  on  his  own  part, 
his  brain  swung  from  dulness,  roused  itself 
to  action;  and  strange  action  truly.  It  awak- 
ened, it  would  seem,  from  stupor  to  fantastic 
delirium.  He  felt  himself  vividly  alive,  and 
utterly  alone.  Alone  he  was  verily  in  that 
forest  devoid  of  living  creatures.  Yet  the 
loneliness  was  of  spirit  rather  than  of  body. 
In  that  moment  his  spirit  was  caught  up  into 
space.  Knowing  the  earth  beneath  him, 
solid,  material,  around  and  above  him  were 
vast  distances,  deep  silences.     In  the  furthest 


The  Wanderer  143 

distance,  in  the  deepest  silence,  at  so  great  an 
altitude  that  his  brain  seeing  it  reeled,  gleamed 
a  great  star.  Now  here  was  the  fuller  fantasy. 
Within  the  depth  of  his  own  soul  he  was 
conscious  of  a  like  spot  of  light,  a  glowing 
star,  yet  very  tiny.  And  he  knew  that  be- 
tween the  star  within  him  and  the  star  above 
him  was  a  strange  attraction. 

In  space  then  his  spirit  hung,  poised  on 
nothingness,  so  it  seemed.  And  here  he  was 
aware  that  he  himself  held  his  soul  thus  poised. 
By  will  he  could  clutch  at  the  earth  beneath 
him,  draw  himself  down  to  it;  by  relinquish- 
ment of  will  he  could  be  drawn,  by  virtue  of 
the  star  within  him,  into  the  distance  to  the 
other  star,  infinitely  remote.  Deep  silence 
lay  around  him,  a  hush  as  of  expectation  and 
waiting.  To  him  like  a  breath  of  wind  from 
far-off  places  came  the  words,  "  Excelsus  super 
omnes  gentes  Dominus,  et  super  ccelos  gloria 
ejus.11  He  knew  now  what  it  meant ;  saw  in  a 
lightning  flash  where  the  choice  lay.  Yet  the 
vastness  above  him  filled  him  with  terror.  A 
strange  cowardice  seized  upon  him;  a  frantic 


144  The  Jester 

desire  for  the  material,  the  solid.  Madly  his 
will  clutched  at  the  earth  beneath  him.     .    .    . 

He  found  himself  walking  in  the  forest,  the 
stupor  and  the  delirium  alike  passed.  And 
now  he  was  very  sure  he  had  been  dreaming. 
Once  more  his  brain  was  clear  and  steady. 
He  half  mocked  at  himself  for  his  brief 
delusion. 

Some  half  dozen  paces  further  on  the  trees 
thinned  on  a  sudden.  He  came  out  upon  a 
smooth  grass  sward  beyond  which  stood  a 
Castle,  the  light  streaming  from  the  windows. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CASTLE  SYRTES 

'"TRULY  I  would  have  thought,  and  you 
would  have  thought,  and  we  might  well 
imagine  Peregrine  would  have  thought,  he 
had  had  enough  of  castles  and  the  dwellers 
therein.  Yet  there  is  no  question  but  that 
he  welcomed  very  heartily  its  appearance 
before  him.  Here  at  least  was  the  tangible, 
the  solid,  the  very  definitely  material  to 
counteract  the  sudden  and  extraordinary  iso- 
lation of  spirit  which  had  fallen  momenta- 
rily upon  him.  He  had  told  himself  it  was  a 
dream,  a  mere  fantastic  illusion  of  the  brain 
wrought  of  the  strange  atmosphere  of  the 
forest;  yet,  for  all  that,  the  memory  of  the 
illusion,  if  such  it  was,  lingered  faintly  with 
him,  caused  him  to  feel  no  little  relief  at  the 
sight  of  the  Castle.  Where  there  is  a  dwell- 
10  145 


146  The  Jester 

ing,  and  moreover  a  lighted  dwelling,  there 
are  doubtless  human  beings,  and  their  pre- 
sence would  be  of  solace  to  him. 

He  crossed  the  grass  sward,  his  feet  striking 
noiselessly  on  the  soft  surface.  Nearing  the 
windows  he  looked  within.  Here  he  saw 
a  large  company  seated  at  a  well-furnished 
board.  Glass  and  silver  sparkled  on  the  table. 
There  were  decanters  full  of  red  wine,  dishes 
piled  with  fruits,  flowers  purple,  scarlet,  and 
orange.  The  guests  themselves  lent  brilliance 
and  colour  to  the  scene.  Surrounded  by  a 
living  flower- wreath,  so  the  board  appeared; 
wind-swayed,  sun-kissed,  as  they  moved  in 
talk  and  laughter,  jewels  on  head,  neck,  and 
arm  glittering  in  the  light. 

At  the  head  of  the  board  sat  a  woman  in  a 
robe  of  orange  silk.  Her  hair,  a  tawny  gold, 
bound  with  a  fillet  of  flaming  stones,  shone 
with  its  own  lustre,  rivalled  successfully  the 
brilliance  of  her  gown.  Her  skin,  olive  hued, 
glowed  with  a  very  subtle  warmth.  You 
guessed  her  body  possessed  of  the  fires  of  the 
South.     Her  eyes,   a  purple-blue,  looked  at 


Castle  Syrtes  147 

you  from  beneath  dark  brows  level  and  very 
beautifully  marked.  Her  mouth,  curved  and 
modelled  like  a  Greek  mouth,  squared  faintly 
at  the  corners,  showing  her  luxurious.  Her 
nose,  straight  and  finely  chiselled,  had  deli- 
cately arched  nostrils.  She  leaned  back  in  her 
chair,  a  great  one  of  carved  ivory,  and  smiled 
at  the  faces  around  her. 

One  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  a  pretty  youth 
in  purple  doublet  and  hose,  a  big  amethyst 
hanging  from  a  silver  chain  about  his  neck. 

"To  Thais!"  he  cried,  raising  his  glass  on 
high.  The  light  shining  through  it  the  wine 
glowed  like  a  ruby. 

The  flower-wreath  about  the  table  swayed, 
rose. 

"To  Thais!"  came  the  cry  from  a  score  of 
voices,  while  ruby-red  glasses  flashed  aloft. 

"  The  glorious  Thais!"  cried  one. 

"The  divine  Thais!" 

"The  adorable  Thais!" 

"  The  incomparable  Thais!" 

"  Thais  the  Enchantress!" 

"Thais  our  Venus!" 


148  The  Jester 

"  Thais  our  Aphrodite! " 

"  Thais  whom  we  worship!" 

So  the  litany  went  around  the  board. 
And  Peregrine  without  mocked  in  his  heart, 
deeming  them  fools,  yet  in  a  manner  envying 
them  their  folly. 

The  cry  died  away.  Again  the  guests  were 
seated  at  the  table.  Peregrine  drew  his 
tabor  from  beneath  his  cloak,  a  long  sombre 
garment,  given  him  by  an  old  woman  on  the 
third  day  of  his  journeying. 

"  'Tis  not  well  to  blazon  yourself  Jester," 
she  had  said  sagely.  "An'  men  have  the 
sense  to  see  you  so  beneath  the  cloak  'tis 
other  matter.  A  true  Jester  will  hide  his 
motley.  'Tis  your  false  fool  shows  his  garb 
to  all  comers.  You,  I  think,  are  true  Jester. " 
Whereupon  she  had  chuckled  very  cunningly. 

So  Peregrine  wore  the  cloak  she  had  given 
him,  finding  wisdom  in  her  words.  Now  from 
beneath  it  he  pulled  forth  his  tabor, 
stepped  into  the  shadow  of  the  Castle, 
touched  the  strings  lightly  and  set  himself  to 
sing. 


Castle  Syrtes  H9 

Listen  all  who  fain  would  know 

How  a  rose  began  to  grow, 
Of  its  blooming  I  will  show, 

None  can  so  well  as  I. 

Planted  by  a  tender  smile, 

Watered  with  fair  words  the  while, 

Who  could  guess  they  were  but  guile  ? 
None  truly  less  than  I. 

Soft  it  opened  in  the  sun; 

Never  such  a  perfect  one 
Bloomed,  I  wot,  since  time  begun. 

None  held  so  true  as  I. 

Red  the  rose  and  passing  sweet, 

For  a  lady's  bosom  meet, 
There  he  laid  it  at  her  feet. 

None  saw  so  well  as  I. 

But  she  crushed  it  Jneath  her  tread, 

Bruised  and  broke  it  till  it  bled; 
In  the  mire  it  lay,  dead,  dead. 

None  laughed  as  soft  as  I. 

Roses  red  and  roses  white, 

Fragrant,  full  of  sweet  delight, 
One  day's  bloom,  then  falls  the  night. 

None  see  it  dark  as  I. 

Pluck  the  roses  for  your  own; 

Never  to  another  shown 
Crush  them  soon  as  fully  blown. 

None  warn  you  well  as  I. 


15°  The  Jester 

The  song  died  away.  A  figure  moved  to  the 
window.  Backed  by  brilliant  light  it  made  a 
dark  patch  in  the  square  opening. 

"Who  sings  warningly  of  love?"  demanded 
a  voice. 

"I  do, "  said  Peregrine  through  the  darkness. 

"And  who  are  you,  if  one  may  be  allowed 
the  question?" 

"A  wanderer." 

"Truly  one  who  has  wandered  to  good  pur- 
pose since  he  finds  himself  at  so  fair  a  goal. 
Wilt  show  yourself,  Sir  Wanderer?" 

Peregrine  stepped  into  the  square  of  light 
cast  upon  the  grass  from  the  window.  He 
saw  looking  out  at  him  a  big  man  clad  in 
scarlet,  somewhat  full-bodied.  His  face,  as 
well  as  Peregrine  could  see  it  against  the 
light,  was  sufficiently  humorous,  with  small 
twinkling  eyes  deep-set. 

"What  brought  you  hither?" 

"Fate  an'  it  please  you,"  returned  Pere- 
grine.    "Folly  an'  it  like  you  better." 

"Folly  leads  not  on  so  good  a  path.  We 
will  call  it  Fate." 


Castle  Syrtes  151 

"At  your  will." 

"  Or  perchance  it  were  better  to  term  it  good 
sense." 

"Good  sense,"  said  Peregrine,  "having 
forethought  in  plenty  gives  the  surplus  of  her 
wares  to  those  she  takes  in  hand.  By  which 
token  I  doubt  me  'twas  hers  led  me  hither." 

The  big  man  laughed.  "We'll  quarrel  not 
as  to  the  guide.  Tis  good  enough  that  you 
are  here." 

"Humph!"  said  Peregrine,  "maybe.  But 
now  that  I  am  here  what  comes  next  in 
order?" 

"That  you  enter  the  Castle." 

"A  very  friendly  suggestion,"  quoth  Pere- 
grine. "I  would  however  point  out  that  I 
bring  no  letter  of  credentials." 

The  big  man  laughed  again,  this  time  rather 
queerly.  "For  that  matter  the  fact  that  you 
have  found  your  way  hither  is  in  itself  full 
enough  credential.  We  are  not  inhospitable. 
Also  I  might  suggest  that  you  have  no  cre- 
dential from  us." 

Peregrine  shrugged  his  shoulders,     "  'Twere 


152  The  Jester 

a  pretty  thing  if  a  beggar  should  demand 
credentials  from  the  man  who  gave  him  alms, 
or  the  wanderer  from  the  man  who  offered  him 
a  shelter.  An'  he  did  so  he  were  a  fool  might 
well  go  drown  in  his  own  folly. " 

"And  you  would  swim  in  your  own  wisdom, 
so  your  words  and  song  would  show. M 

"If  you  judge  by  words  you  judge  ill," 
said  Peregrine  dryly,  "since  no  man  will  own 
his  words  folly.  It  needs  your  wise  man  to 
own  himself  a  fool,  and  thereby  show  his 
greater  wisdom,  since  he  but  owns  to  the 
heritage  of  his  birth.  And  the  man  who 
denies  himself  possessed  of  parents  is  a  very 
patent  fool.  But  to  cease  quibbling  and 
come  to  fact.  You  see  before  you  a  hungry 
man,  a  tired  man,  a  foot-sore  man.  An*  your 
hospitality  be  of  deed  rather  than  word  I 
prithee  let  me  experience  it  on  the  instant." 

"With  all  the  will  in  the  world,"  said  the 
big  man,  and  he  turned  from  the  window. 

The  next  instant  the  Castle  door  was  flung 
wide  open.  Light  streamed  blazing  forth. 
Peregrine  stumbled  towards  it.     Blinking  he 


Castle  Syrtes  153 

found  himself  atop  the  steps,  dazzled  by  the 
greater  brilliance. 

The  man  in  scarlet  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"You  are  spent,"  he  said  kindly. 

"It  would  seem  so, "  said  Peregrine,  laugh- 
ing ruefully. 

"Drink  this. "  A  glass  of  wine  was  held 
to  his  lips. 

Peregrine  pushed  it  aside.  "An'  I  drink 
wine  on  an  empty  stomach  you  will  see  a  very 
drunken  man." 

"Bah !  'tis  not  so  potent. "  Then  as  Pere- 
grine still  pushed  the  glass  aside,  "'Tis  our 
custom,  man.  All  who  enter  here  drink  a 
toast  to  the  Lady  Thais  on  the  doorstep,  swear 
her  fealty  in  drinking. " 

"You  told  me  not  of  stipulations/'  mut- 
tered Peregrine  very  weary. 

"  'Tis  but  an  ancient  custom,  man.  There's 
no  ill  in  the  glass.  Drink  it,  and  cry  to  Thais. 
'Twill  put  new  strength  into  you." 

Thus  urged  Peregrine  took  the  glass.  "To 
Thais!"  he  said,  and  sipped  the  wine.  Very 
sweet  to  the  palate  it  ran  warm  down  his 


154  The  Jester 

throat.  "The  divine  Thais!"  he  cried  laugh- 
ing, remembering  the  toast  he  had  heard. 
He  drank  the  remainder  at  a  draught,  flung 
the  glass  to  the  floor.  "Ah!"  he  said.  "It 
puts  new  life  in  a  man.  Your  name?"  he 
asked  on  a  sudden  of  the  other. 

"They  call  me  Phrixus,"  came  the  answer, 
"since  as  a  child  I  escaped  from  my  step- 
mother, a  very  sharp-tongued  woman.  Truly 
'twas  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth  I  did  so,  and 
on  no  golden-fleeced  ram  neither.  Phrixus  I 
have  been  since,  and  still  am.  May  I  ask 
a  name  for  a  name?" 

"Peregrine,  at  your  service.  A  fool  as  I 
dare  swear  myself.  A  wanderer  as  you  have 
perceived. " 

"A  lucky  wanderer,"  quoth  the  other,  and 
took  him  by  the  arm.  Very  gently  he  pro- 
pelled him  towards  the  great  hall. 

Pausing  a  moment  on  the  threshhold  Pere- 
grine looked  around.  The  hall  was  a  riot  of 
colour,  a  very  feast  for  the  sight.  A  huge 
place  it  was;  the  centre  a  great  domed  arch, 
golden   and   set   on   four  columns   of  black 


Castle  Syrtes  155 

marble.  The  walls  were  hung  with  tapestries 
orange  and  yellow,  bordered  with  blue  and 
purple  most  deftly  intermingled.  So  remote 
were  the  tapestries  that  the  figures  at  the 
table  appeared  backgrounded  against  sunlight 
above  deep  waters.  Around  were  marble 
statues,  works  of  the  world  in  the  morning  of 
time.  Here  was  Hebe  young  and  slender; 
Mercury  wing-footed;  Atalanta  poised  swift 
to  run;  Faunus  half  man  half  goat;  Bacchus 
vine-wreathed;  Apollo,  Athene,  Venus, — all 
were  there  wrought  of  voluptuous  fancy.  Here 
and  there  gleamed  silver  nymphs  and  dryads, 
flashing  to  seeming  life  in  the  red  light  of  the 
fire  which  blazed  at  the  further  end  of  the 
great  hall.  Green  marble  made  the  floor, 
spread  with  rugs  an  harmonious  blend  of 
colour.  Beneath  the  golden  dome  was  set 
the  board,  and  here  was  movement,  life,  and 
laughter. 

As  Peregrine  stood  in  the  doorway  with 
Phrixus  beside  him,  those  opposite  it  looked 
up  and  saw  him,  the  others  turned. 

" Welcome  the  new-comer!"     The  cry  rang 


156  The  Jester 

through  the  hall,  losing  itself  in  echoes  in  the 
golden  dome.  None  could  mistake  the  gen- 
uine ring  of  it.  Peregrine  was  led  forward; 
kneeling  he  kissed  the  hand  Thais  gave  him. 

"We  bid  you  welcome,  Sir,"  she  said  very 
graciously.  And  she  gave  him  a  place  on  her 
right. 

"Will  you  not  lay  aside  your  cloak ?" 
The  request  very  delicately  toned  yet  held  a 
faint  air  of  command.  Willy-nilly  Peregrine 
slipped  it  from  his  shoulders. 

"Ha!"  laughed  Phrixus,  "you  are  Jester. 
So  I  might  have  guessed.  Truly  being  so 
you  are  doubly  welcome.  Is  it  not  so, 
friends?" 

Again  a  cry  rang  loud.  "Welcome  the 
Jester!" 

"An'  I  were  not  very  sure  I  were  waking 
I  should  hold  myself  dreaming,"  mused 
Peregrine  inwardly.  Fate  to  his  mind  played 
pretty  pranks  with  a  man's  life,  tossed  it 
shuttlecock-like  from  depths  to  heights, 
threw  it  from  fair  earth  to  stony  ground,  and 
then  again  to  very  flowery  beds.     Here  at 


Castle  Syrtes  157 

least  was  one  sufficiently  pleasing  for  the 
moment.  Truly  he  would  take  no  thought 
for  the  morrow,  but  enjoy  the  hour  to  its 
full.  An  honoured  guest  he  sat  there,  satis- 
fying his  appetite  very  fully  from  silver  dishes 
served  to  him  by  pages  in  white  and 
gold. 

The  meal  ended  the  board  was  cleared.  It 
and  the  trestles  on  which  it  lay  were  carried 
away  by  serving  men,  rugs  rolled  aside.  At 
the  end  of  the  hall,  somewhat  near  the  great 
fireplace,  was  a  raised  dais.  Here  the  ivory 
chair  was  placed.  Thais  seated  in  it  the  com- 
pany disposed  themselves  around  her  accord- 
ing to  will.  Peregrine  lay  at  her  feet  on 
sapphire  blue  cushions  soft  as  eiderdown. 
Very  content  with  the  present  he  waited  for 
the  next  move. 

It  came.  The  lights  in  the  hall  were  ex- 
tinguished. The  moonlight,  falling  through 
the  windows,  lay  along  the  floor  in  a  silver 
pathway.  The  tapestries  at  the  further  end 
of  the  hall  swung  apart.  From  between 
them,  down  the  moonlight  path,  ran  bare- 


158  The  Jester 

footed  girls  silken-robed,  veiled,  four  pha- 
lanxes of  colour,  pale  heliotrope  shading  to 
deepest  purple;  red  to  fullest  crimson;  the 
green  of  young  beech  leaves  to  the  black 
green  of  pine  trees;  maize-colour  toning 
through  orange  to  tawny  brown.  A  moment 
they  swayed  bowing  before  the  dais,  then  set 
themselves  to  dance,  accompanied  by  music 
from  hidden  musicians.  Their  feet  upon  the 
green  marble  of  the  floor  were  like  little  white 
flowers  dancing  in  breeze-swept  meadows. 
Here  was  very  intoxication  of  movement, 
rhythm  perfect  in  harmony.  As  they  danced 
they  raised  their  veils.  Peregrine  looked  on 
their  faces  oval,  bright-eyed,  scarlet-lipped; 
small  heads  set  on  slim  young  throats.  The 
very  incarnation  of  youth  and  joy  was  personi- 
fied in  the  dance  before  him.  The  fleet ness  of 
it,  the  dainty  fragility,  brought  with  it  a  sense 
of  evanescence.  The  thought  struck  suddenly 
cold  to  his  heart. 

Thais  bent  from  her  chair  towards 
him. 

"How  does  it  please  you?"  she  asked,  her 


Castle  Syrtes  159 

breath  soft  upon  his  cheek,  her  voice  like  the 
tone  of  a  muffled  silver  bell. 

"Madam,  it  pleases  me  exceeding  well," 
said  Peregrine.     Meeting  her  eyes  he  smiled. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  QUEST 

COR  the  space  of  twelve  months  Peregrine 
abode  at  the  Castle  Syrtes.  During  the 
first  six  the  life  within  it  pleased  him  exceed- 
ing well.  There  was  no  lack  of  hospitality; 
his  presence  was  very  assuredly  desired.  On 
all  sides  he  found  himself  a  favourite,  from  the 
least  of  the  guests  to  the  divine  Thais  herself. 
This  was  enough  to  please  a  man  who  had 
found  himself  hitherto,  save  for  a  few  weeks  of 
delusion,  of  very  small  importance. 

He  became  Head  of  the  Council  of  Arts  as 
they  termed  it,  wherein  his  opinion  was  most 
widely  deferred  to.  The  Cult  of  the  Jester 
was  on  all  tongues.  What  precisely  this  Cult 
was  I  know  not,  save  that  it  had  for  its  motto 
Dum  vivimus,  vivamus;  and  that  said  it  is  per- 
chance unnecessary  to  seek  further  light  on  the 

1 60 


The  Quest  161 

matter.  I  know  they  talked  very  blandly  of 
Sorrow  as  the  highest  exponent  of  Art,  where- 
as no  one  of  them  had  ever  glimpsed  even 
the  fringe  of  her  garment,  though  Peregrine 
assuredly  believed  he  had.  Joy,  they  con- 
tended, followed  close  in  her  path.  They 
spoke  intimately  of  both.  But  it  is  very 
certain  that  none  who  have  not  met  Sorrow 
face  to  face  can  hope  to  meet  Joy.  Of  them 
all  Peregrine  was  the  only  one  whom  we  may 
believe  laughed  now  and  again  at  himself.  A 
very  small  grace  truly,  but  we  may  trust  a 
saving  one. 

For  six  months,  then,  he  enjoyed  himself 
mightily,  held  his  Council  of  Arts  wherein 
his  speeches  were  most  largely  adorned  with 
flowery  rhetoric;  sang  to  the  ladies  in  the 
garden,  and  heard  their  praises  of  his  songs 
very  complacently;  ate  delicate  food;  drank 
rare  wines;  watched  dances  wherein  harmony, 
rhythm,  and  colour  lent  every  lure  to  please 
the  senses.  At  the  end  of  six  months  he  began 
to  weary,  and  for  the  succeeding  three  stifled 
mental  yawns  to  the  best  of  his  ability.     Now 


162  The  Jester 

and  again  pleasure  would  rekindle  only  to  die 
away  to  dull  ashes.  For  the  last  three  of  the 
twelve  months  he  was  heartily  sick  of  his  life 
as  it  was,  but  custom  by  now  having  wedded 
him  to  the  Castle  he  was  somewhat  loth  to 
leave.  Also,  having  in  mind  the  memory  of  his 
travels  before  he  reached  the  Castle,  he  saw 
not  to  what  end  he  should  depart.  There- 
fore he  dallied.  He  disguised  his  weariness 
and  dislike  of  the  over-soft  life  well.  None 
suspected  what  he  thought.  It  was  at  this 
time  he  had  a  dream,  which  brought  his 
dilatory  spirit  to  action. 

One  noontide,  lying  in  the  garden  with  the 
autumn  sun  striking  full  upon  him,  he  drowsed 
to  slumber.  At  first,  through  the  slumber, 
he  was  conscious  of  where  he  lay,  felt  the 
warmth  of  the  sun  upon  his  cheek;  was  aware, 
though  with  closed  eyes,  of  the  forest  which 
hemmed  in  the  Castle  on  all  sides.  Gradually 
consciousness  lost  its  hold  upon  him,  he  slid 
into  a  deep  silence  whence  all  externals  left 
him.  Then  it  was  that  the  dream  came  to 
him.     With    no    beginning    he    found    him- 


The  Quest  163 

self  in  the  midst  of  it.      This    is    what    he 
dreamed. 

He  dreamed  that  he  was  walking  on  the  far 
white  road  climbing  the  hillside,  the  same  that 
he  had  seen  a  year  agone.  The  sun  beat  hotly 
upon  it,  burning  his  face,  causing  the  blood  in 
his  temples  to  drum  madly.  In  front  of  him 
he  saw  a  figure,  a  cloaked  woman  moving 
swiftly  over  the  road  before  him.  He  strained 
every  nerve  in  pursuit  of  her,  but  for  all  his 
straining  she  kept  ever  ahead.  The  road 
became  steeper,  the  sun  beat  more  fiercely 
upon  him.  Yet  his  desire  to  reach  the  figure 
before  him  was  so  intense  that  he  would  not 
have  halted  if  he  could.  But  he  could  not. 
He  knew  that  till  he  reached  her  he  must  keep 
ever  onward.  Then  beyond  her  he  saw  the 
tree,  its  withered  branches  flung  cross-like 
from  the  dead  trunk.  And  on  a  sudden  he 
knew  that  unless  he  gained  her  before  she 
had  passed  it  by  he  would  never  reach  her. 
He  tried  to  run  and  could  not,  his  feet  were 
leaden.  He  could  only  keep  on  at  the  same 
dull  pace.      He  saw  her  now  within  a  yard 


1 64  The  Jester 

of  the  tree.  She  had  gained  it.  Some  cry 
burst  from  his  throat,  half  prayer,  wholly 
imploring.  At  the  very  foot  of  the  tree  she 
stopped  and  turned.  With  laboured  steps  he 
came  abreast  her.     He  saw  her  face.  .  .  . 

He  woke  trembling.  The  dream  had  been 
very  vivid.  Yet  more  vivid  than  heat  or 
fatigue  was  the  face  of  the  woman  he  had  seen. 
Of  one  thing  he  was  very  certain.  It  was  no 
dream  face  only.  Somewhere  the  woman  was 
in  existence,  and  from  that  moment  till  life 
should  be  ended  for  him  he  must  seek  her.  If 
in  sleep  the  desire  to  reach  her  had  been 
intense,  the  desire  in  waking  was  threefold. 
Here  one  might  say  was  madness  and  illusion. 
Maybe.  Nevertheless  it  stung  him  quick  to 
action. 

He  got  to  his  feet,  picking  up  his  cloak  from 
the  ground  where  it  had  lain  beside  him.  He 
looked  around.  There  was  no  man  in  sight. 
So  much  the  better,  since  he  was  in  no  mood 
either  for  argument  or  farewell. 

Leaving  the  smooth  green  of  the  grass  sward 
he  plunged  straight  into  the  forest.     Here  he 


The  Quest  165 

was  to  experience  some  of  that  so-called  evil 
magic  which  brought  the  forest  its  ill  name. 
Verily  an'  he  were  so  minded  he  might  have 
believed  the  trees  and  shrubs  possessed  of 
demons  so  venomously  did  they  seek  to  bar 
his  passage  among  them.  Knowing,  however, 
the  thought  sheer  foolishness  he  but  mocked 
at  it,  and  put  it  from  him.  The  path  by 
which  he  had  made  his  way  to  the  Castle  had 
become  overgrown  during  his  twelve  months* 
sojourn  there.  The  difficulty  of  his  return 
route  fretted  him  while  it  roused  him  to  do 
combat  with  it.  Now  and  again  he  paused 
to  break  off  some  branch  tough  as  leather, 
requiring  the  full  strength  of  both  his  hands 
to  twist.  He  became  hot  and  weary,  and 
very  assuredly  angry  with  the  difficulties  that 
beset  him.  A  dogged  obstinacy  took  hold  on 
him.  For  the  moment  he  lost  sight  of  the 
memory  of  his  dream  and  the  quest  on  which  it 
had  brought  him.  Sheer  determination  to  win 
through  the  forest  at  any  hazard  sent  him 
struggling  onward.  An'  he  had  to  break  his 
way  piecemeal  through  the  forest  he  would  win 


166  The  Jester 

his  way  out.  You  see  him  now  a  very  stub- 
born man,  one  not  to  be  kept  prisoner  against 
his  own  will  and  pleasure. 

Yard  by  yard  he  made  his  way  forward. 
His  hands  began  to  drop  blood,  his  clothes 
were  sadly  torn.  Two  thirds  of  the  forest 
lay  behind  him.  An'  he  could  hold  out  for  the 
remainder  all  were  well.  He  shook  the  blood 
from  his  ringers  which  smarted  very  painfully, 
cried  courage  to  his  heart,  and  beat  onward. 
Here  it  was  that  the  memory  of  his  dream 
returned  to  him,  and  further,  here  was  the 
pity  of  it,  returned  merely  as  dream.  That 
was  discouraging.  It  made  him  appear  a  fool 
for  his  pains,  his  trouble  to  no  purpose.  For  a 
moment  his  heart  cried  to  him  to  give  up  the 
remainder  of  his  journey,  to  return  on  his  path. 

"Nay,"  he  said,  very  dogged,  "'tis  a  low 
suggestion  to  make  a  man.  An'  I  return  'tis 
like  as  not  the  reality  of  the  dream  returns  also. 
The  journey  thus  far  will  have  been  for  naught, 
and  it  will  be  but  to  make  again.  I  cry 
onward."     Which  methinks  sound  reasoning. 

Stumbling,  bruised,  and  bleeding  he  made 


The  Quest  167 

the  last  bit  of  the  forest;  saw  at  length  the  sky 
between  the  trees.  Worn  out  he  dropped  on 
their  margin,  halting  for  a  moment's  breathing 
space.  While  he  lay  breathless  and  panting 
the  face  of  his  vision  returned  to  him  clear  and 
vivid.  Again  he  knew  it  for  no  dream.  This 
much  at  least  he  had  as  reward  for  his  la- 
bours. He  got  to  his  feet  on  the  instant.  The 
land  around  him  lay  in  sunshine.  Now  he 
saw  what  had  escaped  him  formerly  in  the 
dusk,  a  path  through  the  bog  around  the 
forest.  He  took  it  gladly  and  came  out  upon 
the  plain.  Here  in  the  sunlight  he  saw  the 
great  boulders,  less  ominous  now  than  in  the 
gathering  storm;  and  far  off  he  saw  the  white 
road  climbing  the  hillside.  He  knew  it  for  his 
goal  without  doubt,  and  set  off  thither. 

An  hour  or  so  brought  him  to  it,  and  he 
began  to  ascend.  He  felt  the  heat  of  the  sun 
upon  him,  bringing  his  dream  clear  to  mind. 
Each  moment  he  thought  to  see  the  figure  on 
the  road  before  him,  but  it  stretched  onward 
empty  up  the  hill. 

He  climbed  steadily;  anon  saw  the  tree  dark 


168  The  Jester 

against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  He  pressed  for- 
ward towards  it.  So  sure  had  he  been  at  the 
beginning  of  the  climb  of  finding  what  he 
sought  that  disappointment  fell  very  hard 
upon  him  when  he  saw  no  figure  standing 
beneath  it.  Sick  at  heart  he  came  up  to  it, 
looked  around.  On  every  side  stretched 
dusty  grass,  sun-baked  and  dry;  and  on  ahead, 
between  the  stretches  of  it,  passed  the  white 
road.  The  futility  of  his  quest  struck  upon 
him.     He  felt  himself  a  deluded  man. 

About  to  turn  bitterly  away  his  eye  was 
caught  by  an  impress  in  the  dusty  ground 
below  the  tree.  Bending  closer  he  saw  foot- 
marks, clear  and  unblurred,  deeply  imprinted. 
Someone  had  stood  there  not  long  since. 
Slight  hope  to  go  on,  seeing  it  might  have  been 
a  mere  wayfarer  such  as  he  himself.  Yet  even 
as  a  drowning  man  grips  hold  on  a  straw  so 
Peregrine  gripped  on  the  faint  hope  the 
impress  brought  him.  He  saw  now  that  the 
marks  passed  on  along  the  road.  With  hope 
renewed  he  followed  in  their  track. 


CHAPTER  XV 


SIMON  OF   THE   BEES 


IN  a  valley,  hill-surrounded  on  all  sides,  with 
but  a  narrow  passage  between  them  to 
the  north  and  to  the  south,  stood  on  a  time  a 
hamlet.  It  clustered  for  the  most  part  round 
the  parish  church,  a  small  building,  with  a 
square  low  tower  at  one  end.  For  all  I  know 
it  stands  there  to  this  day,  though  most  as- 
suredly the  houses  then  around  it  are  done 
away  with.  This  fact,  an'  I  were  so  minded, 
might  lead  me  to  inscribe  sage  reflections  en 
the  decay  of  life,  and  the  passing  of  time.  But 
I  am  by  no  means  disposed  so  to  weary  you, 
for  which  mercy  you  will  doubtless  cry  Deo 
gratias,  or  some  such  pious  thanks.  My 
business  is  merely  to  chronicle  Peregrine's 
wanderings  on  his  quest,  and  to  leave  sage  re- 
flections to  those  more  apt  to  deal  with  them. 

169 


170  The  Jester 

Winter  lay  over  the  valley  at  this  time. 
Snow  massed  upon  the  roads  making  them 
well-nigh  impassable.  Wise  folk  ventured  not 
far  afield,  but,  returning  from  enforced  expedi- 
tions with  speed,  made  themselves  snug  be- 
tween four  walls.  Round  the  same  walls  the 
wind  blew  shrilly. 

Within  one  of  the  cottages  an  old  man 
sat  crouched  over  a  turf  fire.  A  wizened  old 
thing  he  was,  his  face  crossed  and  recrossed 
with  wrinkles,  till  it  was  like  a  withered 
brown  apple.  He  stretched  gnarled  old  hands 
to  the  blaze,  hands  hardened  with  many  years 
of  holding  a  spade.  Folk  said  his  heart  was 
as  hard  as  his  hands.  It  may  be  they  spoke 
truth.  It  is  certain  that  if  he  had  a  heart, 
hard  or  soft,  he  kept  it  very  well  hidden.  None 
speaking  a  good  word  of  him,  he  spoke  a  good 
word  of  none.  Give  and  it  shall  be  given  you, 
was  his  motto;  which  being  interpreted  meant, 
An'  you  give  to  me,  I  will  e'en  give  to  you,  an 
interpretation  other  than  is  usual  to  it.  The 
motto  was  not  likely  to  bring  him  any  vast 
satisfaction,    though    doubtless    he    cheated 


Simon  of  the  Bees  171 

himself  into  imagining  that  it  did.  At  all 
events  it  was  the  one  he  had  chosen,  and  that 
to  his  mind  stood  for  something.  You  will 
perceive,  too,  that  through  it  he  saw  himself 
against  mankind,  not  mankind  against  him; 
that  also  stood  for  something.  In  his  way 
he  was  a  bit  of  a  thinker.  None  knew  this  for 
certain,  as  he  kept  his  thoughts,  if  he  had 
any,  to  himself;  but  he  was  suspected  of  them. 
This  was  not  in  his  favour.  Thinking  is  for 
your  student,  your  philosopher,  your  priest, 
possibly  for  your  lord  of  the  manor.  It 
comes  not  into  the  life  of  a  villain.  Work, 
food,  and  sleep;  sleep,  food,  and  work  are 
in  the  natural  order  of  things;  mayhap  a 
prayer  or  two  to  Our  Lady  and  the  saints, 
and  at  the  last,  death,  which,  being  more 
pitiful  than  life,  is  not  ill  welcome. 

He  had  no  kith  nor  kin ;  no  one  and  nothing 
for  which  he  cared,  save  his  bees.  Of  these 
he  had  a  goodly  store,  ten  hives  set  in  the 
garden  behind  his  hovel, — it  was  little  else. 
In  the  summer  they  made  music  around  him 
while    he    tilled    the    soil.     He    found    their 


172  The  Jester 

droning  very  pleasant  to  his  ears.  By  virtue 
of  this  goodly  possession  he  was  called  Simon 
of  the  Bees.  The  title  was  dear  to  him, 
though  no  man  dreamed  it.  Here  was  the  sole 
thing  mankind  had  ever  bestowed  on  him 
which  afforded  him  pleasure;  yet,  since  the 
bestowal  was  of  careless  custom  rather  than 
of  charity  aforethought,  it  was  deserving  of  no 
reward.  Such  was  his  reasoning.  It  was  a 
matter  of  occasional  speculation  in  the  village 
as  to  whom  Simon  would  will  his  bees  on  his 
death,  having  no  kin.  It  remained,  however, 
speculation;  and  was  like  to  do  so. 

On  this  winter  night  Simon,  warming  his 
hands  over  the  fire,  and  muttering  now  and 
again  to  himself,  was  roused  from  his  muttering 
by  a  blow  on  the  door.  He  got  slowly  to  his 
feet,  grumbling  the  while,  and  drew  back  the 
wooden  bolt  which  made  it  fast.  Without,  in 
the  darkness,  he  saw  a  cloaked  figure  stand- 
ing in  the  wind-driven  snow. 

11  Shelter,  for  the  love  of  heaven/ '  said  a 
man's  voice. 

'T  am  none  so  sure  of  the  love,"  responded 


Simon  of  the  Bees  173 

Simon,  and  made  to  shut  the  door.  In  this 
he  was  frustrated  by  the  sudden  swaying 
of  the  figure,  which  fell  very  prone  across  his 
threshhold,  feet  and  legs  without,  head  and 
shoulders  on  the  mud  floor  of  the  hovel. 

"A  very  unceremonious  entry,"  grumbled 
Simon.  And  he  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute. 
The  man  could  not  lie  where  he  was,  since  his 
bulk  upon  the  step  made  it  impossible  to  close 
the  door.  The  wind  blew  the  smoke  in  eddy- 
ing waves  about  the  room.  In  a  moment  you 
could  scarce  see  a  hand's  breadth  before  your 
face.  To  push  him  without  meant  his  death 
on  a  very  certainty.  Directly  or  indirectly 
Simon  had  never  yet  had  the  murder  of  a 
man  on  his  soul,  whatever  sins  else  burdened 
it.  Grumbling  more  heartily  he  got  his 
hands  under  the  man's  arms,  and  tugged  him 
forward  into  the  room.  Then  he  made  the 
door  fast  again. 

The  smoke  now  making  its  way  through  the 
hole  in  the  roof,  the  air  cleared  somewhat. 
Simon  looked  down  upon  the  prostrate  figure. 

"An'  he  dies  within  'twere  e'en  less  pleasant 


174  The  Jester 

than  he  died  without, "  he  muttered.  He  got 
water  in  a  horn  cup,  and  held  it  to  the  man's 
lips,  forcing  it  between  them.  In  a  moment 
or  so  the  man  opened  his  eyes,  lifted  himself 
feebly  on  his  elbow,  and  looked  around. 

''Where  ami?"  he  asked. 

"No  more  original  than  the  rest  of  men," 
muttered  Simon.  "There  never  yet  was 
swooning  man  but  asked  his  whereabouts  on 
coming  to  himself.  Doubtless  fearing  to  find 
himself  in  a  less  pleasant  place  than  he  is 
accustomed  to.  An'  you  would  know,  you 
are  in  the  shelter  you  demanded." 

"I  thank  you." 

Simon  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  No  thanks 
are  due.     You  forced  an  entry." 

"You  might  have  pushed  me  without." 

"And  have  had  your  death  on  my  soul. 
'T would  be  a  heavier  burden  than  I've  a  mind 
for."  He  seated  himself  again  by  the  fire. 
The  man  watched  him  from  the  floor. 

"Who  you  are  I  know  not,"  said  Simon, 
"where  you  come  from  I  care  less,  but  that 
you  must  bide  here  the  night  is  obvious." 


Simon  of  the  Bees  175 

"  I  am  rejoiced  you  see  it  so, "  was  the  reply. 
"My  name  is  Peregrine,  a  Jester,  at  your 
service.  Since  I  bide  here  the  night  'twere 
well  we  were  acquainted,  in  spite  of  your  little 
caring." 

Simon  grunted.  "A  Jester!  A  pretty  jest 
it  would  have  been  for  me  an'  you  had 
died  on  my  threshhold.  What  caused  you 
swoon?" 

"Hunger,"  said  Peregrine  very  simply. 

Simon  looked  at  him  from  beneath  shaggy 
eyebrows.  Then  he  got  slowly  to  his  feet. 
From  a  shelf  he  fetched  a  plate  of  dark  bread. 

"Eat,"  he  said  briefly,  holding  it  towards 
him. 

Peregrine  fell  ravenously  upon  the  coarse 
food.  A  moment  Simon  watched  him,  then 
turned  again  to  the  shelf.  From  it  he  took 
a  piece  of  honeycomb. 

"Here,"  he  said  gruffly,  "'tis  toothsome 
stuff." 

Peregrine  took  it  from  him.  "I  thank  you 
heartily,"  he  made  reply.  Simon  grunted, 
and   went   back   to   his   seat.     From   it    he 


176  The  Jester 

watched  Peregrine  devour  the  bread  and 
honeycomb,  lick  his  fingers  of  the  sticky 
sweetness.  The  simple  meal  finished,  Pere- 
grine looked  across  at  his  host. 

"Will  you  give  me  your  name?"  asked 
Peregrine. 

"Simon  of  the  Bees,  men  call  me, "  was  the 
reply  given  with  a  regal  carelessness.  Neither 
the  regality,  nor  the  would-be  carelessness  of 
the  answer  escaped  Peregrine. 

"A  goodly  title,"  he  responded,  "to  which 
I  am  doubtless  indebted  for  a  sweet  meal." 

Simon  grunted. 

"I  like  bees,"  said  Peregrine. 

Simon  grunted  again.  It  was  his  nearest 
approach  to  conversation.  Peregrine  took  it 
as  such. 

"Diligent  little  atoms,"  pursued  Peregrine, 
"busy  on  their  own  pursuits.  Faithful  too; 
each  choosing  its  own  kind  of  flower  it  sticks 
to  it  like  a  true  man  to  his  love.  Fearing  no 
one,  they  dislike  those  that  fear  them,  and 
show  their  dislike  accordingly." 

Simon  grunted  a  third  time,  but  approv- 


Simon  of  the  Bees  177 

ingly.  He  found  in  Peregrine  an  observer 
of  his  favourites.  A  silence  endured  a  little 
space;  then  Simon  put  a  question  showing 
interest  in  his  guest.  This  was  marvel,  had 
Peregrine  but  known. 

"What  brought  you  hither?" 

"Humph!"  said  Peregrine.  "That  is  none 
too  easy  a  question  to  answer.  Maybe  a 
dream,  maybe  a  reality.  At  times  I  have 
thought  that  which  brought  me  on  my  wander- 
ings but  the  airy  nothingness  of  which  dreams 
are  fashioned;  at  times  I  have  known  it  for 
more,  seen  in  my  pursuit  the  one  solid  and 
sane  action  of  my  life." 

Simon  gave  vent  to  his  usual  grunt.  "You 
tell  me  little.     What  is  it  you  pursue?" 

"A  woman." 

"I  might  have  known  it."  Simon  laughed 
mockingly. 

"She  is  not  as  other  women,"  said  Pere- 
grine musing.     "She  has  quiet  eyes." 

"Truly!"  said  Simon. 

"I  saw  her  in  a  dream, "  went  on  Peregrine. 
"Now  I  seek  her." 


178  The  Jester 

Again  Simon  laughed.  "On  your  own 
showing  the  quest  savours  of  madness.  A 
woman  with  quiet  eyes,  forsooth,  once  seen 
in  a  young  man's  dream!  An'  that  is  all  you 
have  to  go  on,  how  think  you  to  find  her?" 

"I  know  not,"  said  Peregrine  very  quiet. 

"Madness,"  said  Simon  crossly. 

"Mayhap,"  smiled  Peregrine. 

"Sheer  madness,"  said  Simon. 

"Quite  possible." 

"Huh!"  grunted  Simon,  and  relapsed  into 
silence.  Now  and  again  he  looked  at  Pere- 
grine sitting  on  the  mud  floor  in  the  dim 
firelight,  his  hands  clasped  round  his  knees. 
From  him  he  looked  at  the  fire,  then  back 
again  at  the  man.  Memory,  long  sleeping, 
was  struggling  to  birth  in  his  soul.  The  lines 
on  his  face  quivered  now  and  again  in  its 
travail.     On  a  sudden  he  spoke. 

"J  was  once  young." 

"So  are  all  men  once,"  said  Peregrine  very 
softly. 

"I  too  had  my  dreams, "  said  Simon  gruffly. 

"They  aid  a  man,"  said  Peregrine. 


Simon  of  the  Bees  179 

"Maybe,  and  maybe  not.  'Twill  aid  a 
man,  mayhap,  to  have  a  son  and  see  him  grow 
to  manhood.  Of  what  aid  is  his  birth  an'  he 
wither  of  some  hidden  disease  in  childhood, 
suffer  and  die  with  none  but  you  to  sorrow? 
To  my  thinking  no  hope  at  all  were  better 
than  hope  unfulfilled." 

Peregrine  mused,  his  eyes  on  the  glowing 
turf.  "Methinks  I  find  your  simile  not  over 
apt.  An'  a  child  of  our  flesh  die,  we  may  see 
God's  Hand  in  the  death.  An'  a  hope  of  our 
heart  die,  mayhap  we  are  the  murderers." 

Simon  turned  on  him  half  savagely.  "Is 
a  mother  a  murderer  that  her  babe  dies  in 
her  arms  for  lack  of  the  milk  in  her  breasts, 
an'  she'd  give  her  life's  blood  for  it  would  it 
avail?  Methinks  you  must  look  somewhat 
further." 

Peregrine  was  silent.  Here  he  found  no 
answer  to  give. 

"Sixty  year  and  more  I've  lived  here  in 
this  hovel,"  went  on  Simon,  "and  never  a 
kindly  word  spoken  to  me.  I  might  be  the 
plague  itself  for  the  way  men  eye  me.     From 


180  The  Jester 

boyhood  'twas  the  same.  Mayhap  'tis  some- 
thing bred  in  me  they  shun.  Yet,  for  all 
that,  I  nurtured  hope  for  twenty  year; 
dreamed,  as  you  dream  now.  At  last  I  had 
naught  left  on  which  to  nourish  it.  It 
shrivelled  and  died.  I  saw  it  twist  in  agony, 
for  'twas  no  easy  death.  When  it  was  dead 
I  laughed  that  it  had  ever  lived.  Hope,  I 
tell  you,  dying  in  a  man's  soul  rots  there, 
turns  his  soul  foul.  Better  strangle  it  before 
it  comes  to  birth.  Then  you  can  rid  yourself 
of  it.  Later  you  cannot;  and  dying  it  lies 
there  to  canker  and  decay."  He  stopped, 
and  again  Peregrine  could  find  no  answer. 
The  wind  sighed  through  the  trees  without; 
all  else  was  silence. 

"Did  you  speak? "  asked  Simon  suddenly. 

"No, "  said  Peregrine  startled,  "yet  me- 
thought " 

"Fancy,"  said  Simon  shortly. 

"Nay,"  said  Peregrine  listening.  "It  was 
as  a  voice  from  far  off  places.  Ego  sum 
resurrectio  et  mtay  it  said." 

"The    wind    sighing    in    the    trees    brings 


Simon  of  the  Bees  181 

voices  to  a  man's  fancy,"  returned  Simon 
crossly. 

"And  yet — "  said  Peregrine  wondering. 

"I  too  have  dreamed,"  retorted  Simon. 
"Hope,  I  tell  you,  is  dead  within  my  soul. 
Yet — yet  one  fancy  remains.  An'  it  be 
not  wholly  foul,  an'  there  be  one  spot  of 
sweetness  left  within  it  e'er  I  die,  perchance 
'twill  be  carried  hence  by  my  singing  bees. 
A  mad  fancy,  and  I  am  e'en  mad  to  dream  it. 
Tis  cankered  through  and  through.  We  have 
had  enough  of  jargon  for  the  time.  An'  you 
would  sleep,  there's  your  couch."  He  pointed 
to  a  heap  of  dried  bracken  in  a  corner  of  the 
room. 

Peregrine  rose  from  the  floor,  crossed  to 
the  bracken,  and  lay  down.  Simon  sat  mo- 
tionless by  the  fire.  Without,  the  wind  sighed 
among  the  trees  in  the  valley. 

A  sound  in  the  room  roused  Peregrine  the 
next  morning.  He  looked  up  to  see  Simon 
standing  by  the  open  doorway.  Without,  the 
dim  world  was  carpetted  in  snow. 


1 82  The  Jester 

"You  made  good  slumber, "  said  Simon 
turning  and  seeing  him  awake. 

"Exceeding  good,"  responded  Peregrine  re- 
freshed and  cheerful.     "And  how  fared  you?" 

"As  needful,"  grunted  Simon. 

"I  must  onward,"  said  Peregrine. 

"Still  mad,"  grumbled  Simon.  "You  must 
eat  first." 

He  produced  more  bread  and  honeycomb. 
They  mealed  in  silence.  The  meal  ended, 
Peregrine  got  to  his  feet. 

"An'  gratitude  were  substantial  reward," 
he  said,  "you  were  very  substantially  re- 
warded.    'Tis  all  I  have  to  offer." 

"'Tis  rare  enough  to  be  appreciated,"  said 
Simon  very  grim. 

Peregrine  laughed.  "I  bid  you  adieu,"  he 
said.  He  had  got  to  the  door  when  Simon 
came  beside  him. 

"An*  you  would  find  her  you  seek,"  he 
said,  "seek  her  in  death's  chamber.  She 
closes  the  eyes  of  the  dead." 

1 '  What  mean  you  ? ' '  asked  Peregrine.  ' '  You 
speak  in  parable." 


Simon  of  the  Bees  183 

"No  parable;  in  very  truth.  She  has 
passed  through  this  village  more  than  once." 

"You  have  seen  her,  and  yet  you  term  me 
mad,"  cried  Peregrine. 

Simon  laughed.  "I  have  spoken, "  he  said, 
and  turned  within  the  hovel. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ILLUSION 

HP  HE  sun  was  not  yet  risen  when  Peregrine 
left  the  cottage.  To  the  west,  behind 
the  hills,  the  sky  glowed  faintly  luminous. 
Around  him  the  valley  lay  yet  in  dusk, 
through  which  the  trees  and  bushes  reared 
ghostly  arms,  white-shrouded,  very  spectre- 
like. The  air  was  alive  with  an  intense 
purity,  exceeding  still,  yet  vital. 

Away  to  the  right,  beyond  the  church,  he 
saw  a  square  building.  A  cross  crowning  it 
at  one  end,  he  judged  it  the  retreat  of  holy 
men  or  women, — monks  or  nuns.  Through  the 
narrow  slits  of  windows  came  the  gleam  of  pale 
candlelight,  showing  the  occupants  of  the 
building  already  astir,  busy  with  Ave  or 
Paternoster,  possibly  kneeling  devout  at  Mass. 

Even  as  he  looked  a  bell  rang  out,  its  clear 

184 


Illusion  185 

tone  piercing  the  silence.  Habit  caused  him 
to  bow  his  head.  The  action  was  involuntary ; 
he  had  done  with  such  matters  long  since,  or 
fancied  to  have  done  with  them.  In  either 
case  it  comes  to  the  same  for  the  time  being. 
We  need  not  be  nice  as  to  the  interpolation  of 
a  word. 

Turning  to  the  south  he  took  the  road 
towards  the  opening  between  the  hills.  It 
lay,  very  smoothly  white,  between  a  snow- 
shrouded  wall  on  the  one  side,  and  a  fence  on 
the  other.  Now  he  noticed  a  single  line  of 
footprints  in  the  snow,  small  and  clear,  pass- 
ing on  before  him.  His  imagination  fired  on 
the  instant,  he  followed  in  their  wake.  They 
led  him  clean  through  the  village  to  a  pine 
wood  on  its  outskirts,  beyond  which  lay  the 
route  between  the  hills. 

The  sun  was  up  by  the  time  he  reached 
its  edge,  gilding  the  western  sky,  flooding  the 
earth  with  its  beams.  Following  the  footsteps 
he  entered  the  wood,  found  himself  caught 
in  its  mystic  silence.  Here  was  the  brooding 
stillness,  the  peace  of  some  vast  cathedral. 


186  The  Jester 

Between  the  aisles  of  the  pine  trees  the 
chequered  light  straggled  but  a  little  way. 
This  emphasized  the  solitude.  The  soul  of 
the  place  seemed  withdrawn  from  sensible 
light  and  warmth  into  a  great  silence. 

Less  conscious  of  the  atmosphere  around 
him  than  of  the  footsteps  he  was  following, 
Peregrine  pursued  his  way.  A  very  certain 
hope  beat  in  his  heart.  It  was  perchance  less 
hope  than  certainty.  As  he  walked  he  looked 
not  at  the  trees  around  him,  but  at  the  foot- 
prints on  the  ground.  The  snow  had  fallen 
sparsely  between  the  pines,  covering  the  path 
but  thinly.  In  the  footmarks  he  could  see 
the  brown  of  the  pine  needles,  and  here  and 
there  a  glint  of  green  moss.  For  the  space 
of  some  half  hour  he  walked;  the  wood  ex- 
tended further  than  he  had  believed  on  enter- 
ing it.  On  either  hand  he  saw  the  tracks  of 
tiny  feet,  of  birds,  of  mice,  of  rabbits.  Down 
a  glen  gleamed  the  berries  of  a  rowan  tree, 
scarlet  against  the  darkness  of  the  pines.  A 
few  fallen  berries  below  it  shone  blood-red  on 
the  snow. 


Illusion  187 

At  length  he  gained  the  further  outskirts 
of  the  wood,  came  into  full  sunshine.  Here 
was  moorland  stretching  upward  right  and 
left  to  the  hills ;  before  him  it  narrowed  to  the 
pass  between  them.  Some  hundred  yards  or 
so  ahead  of  him  he  saw  a  rude  cottage,  mud- 
walled,  thatched  with  rushes  and  bracken. 
It  stood  solitary  in  the  expanse  of  snow.  The 
footprints  led  towards  it.  You  may  be  very 
sure  that  Peregrine  followed  the  footprints. 

Coming  up  to  the  cottage  he  peered  through 
the  small  square  opening  that  served  for  win- 
dow. Now  verily  his  heart  beat  to  suffoca- 
tion.    This  is  what  he  saw. 

The  middle  of  the  floor  held  a  rough  bier;  a 
coarse  linen  sheet  was  drawn  over  that  which 
lay  upon  it.  Two  candles  stood  at  the  head, 
their  flame  pale  and  insignificant  in  the  sun- 
shine which  fell  through  the  window.  He  did 
not  mark  a  woman  sleeping  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room,  lying,  most  evidently  exhausted,  on 
a  heap  of  moss  and  skins.  His  eyes  were  all 
for  a  veiled  figure  kneeling  by  the  bier.  Flash- 
ing through  his  mind  came  Simon's  words. 


1 88  The  Jester 

1  'Seek  her  in  death's  chamber.  She  closes 
the  eyes  of  the  dead." 

You  may  well  believe  his  heart  cried,  "At 
last!"  The  weary  months  of  his  quest  sank 
from  him.  He  had  found  her.  Past  difficul- 
ties had  vanished;  past  fatigue  was  forgotten 
in  present  rest;  past  heart-burning  in  present 
happiness.  He  dared  not  yet  make  his  pres- 
ence known.  It  was  enough  that  there  she 
knelt,  her  head  bowed  towards  the  bier.  You 
see  him  humbled.  He  had  doubted  his  dream 
at  times.  It  was  now  embodied  before  him. 
Here  was  enough  to  bow  a  man  to  the  earth,  to 
abase  his  soul,  the  while  joy  raised  it  high.  So 
for  a  little  space  he  stood  entranced.  Going  at 
last  to  the  door,  he  put  his  hand  upon  the  latch. 

The  sound  of  its  raising  roused  the  kneel- 
ing woman.  She  got  to  her  feet.  A  gentle- 
faced  nun  she  stood  there,  looking  at  the  man 
in  the  doorway. 

"  Sir?  "  she  said  questioningly,  her  voice  very 
low. 

Peregrine  was  as  one  turned  to  stone.  His 
heart  was  sick  within  him. 


Illusion  189 

"Sir, "  she  said  again  very  gently,  "what 
seek  you?     Here  is  death  present." 

Peregrine  looked  at  her.  A  mad  desire  to 
laugh  assailed  him.  Yet  courtesy  was  ever 
strong  upon  him. 

"Madam,  I  crave  your  pardon,"  he  said 
hoarsely.  "I — I  have  made  a  mistake." 
Blindly  he  turned  from  the  door,  stumbled 
out  into  the  snow. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

APHORISMS 

COR  a  time  Peregrine  was  as  one  distraught. 
It  may  not  be  far  beside  the  mark  to 
term  him  mad.  He  saw  himself  in  the 
past  mocked  by  a  woman;  he  saw  himself 
now  mocked  by  a  man.  In  both  he  saw 
vaguely  the  shadow  of  mockery  by  a  Higher 
Power.  Truly  a  hard  state.  Yet  strangely, 
for  all  that,  he  lost  not  hold  on  his  quest. 
Where  heart's  desire  had  urged  him  in  the 
past,  fierce  obstinacy  now  spurred  him  for- 
ward. The  face  of  the  woman  he  sought  was 
ever  before  his  mind.  He  believed  her  with- 
held and  hidden  from  him  by  conspiring  Fate. 
This  roused  him  to  battle.  He  would  move 
Earth  and  Heaven  and  Hell  to  find  her;  die, 
if  need  be,  in  the  attempt.     This  you  may 

guess  he  was  very  like  to  do.     Already  his 

190 


Aphorisms  191 

wanderings  had  told  on  him.  It  was  now 
mid-winter,  as  we  have  seen,  and  that  season 
is  not  one  for  e'en  the  hardiest  to  be  afoot  at 
all  times,  dependent  on  chance  for  shelter. 

Of  late  he  had  aged  considerably.  This 
was  not  over  strange,  since  age  comes  not 
with  the  mere  passing  of  Time,  but  with  the 
pressure  of  his  finger  in  the  passing.  He  had 
pressed  hard  on  Peregrine.  You  see  him  very 
different  from  the  love-bathed  youth,  who 
had  sat  by  the  sundial  in  the  flower-scented 
garden;  the  joyous  youth,  who  had  wandered 
the  fields  with  Pippo;  the  wounded  youth, 
who  had  lain  in  the  wood,  his  cheek  pressed 
to  Mother  Earth ;  the  egoist,  who  had  held  his 
Council  of  Arts  in  Castle  Syrtes;  who,  daunt- 
less, had  fought  his  way  through  the  forest. 
He  was  a  man  soul-sick,  weary,  desperate,  pur- 
suer of  a  forlorn  hope,  so  men  would  term  it. 

Here  it  was  that  a  certain  duplex  side  of 
his  character  showed  itself.  One  part  of  his 
nature  would  have  ranged  itself  on  the  side 
of  men,  would  have  stood  with  them  for  the 
madness   of  his   quest,    its   mere   foolishness 


192  The  Jester 

rather.  This  part  of  his  nature  he  strangled 
very  fiercely.  Pride  had  a  hand  in  the 
strangling.  He  would  make  his  quest  true, 
prove  himself  no  fool.  He  saw  himself  in  a 
sense  creator  of  what  he  sought.  He  himself, 
by  virtue  of  his  belief  in  the  woman,  would 
materialize  her,  if  she  existed  but  in  realms 
of  fancy.  Thus,  I  say,  he  would  prove  him- 
self no  fool.  This  was  veritable  madness. 
Yet  I  have  told  you  Peregrine  was  for  the 
moment  not  fully  sane. 

Leaving  the  cottage  of  illusion, — this  is 
what  he  termed  it  to  himself,  and  very 
bitterly, — he  had  made  for  the  south,  to  the 
pass  between  the  hills.  Descending  for  a 
time,  the  path  had  at  length  led  upwards 
between  more  pine  woods,  like  to  that  he  had 
lately  traversed.  Misery  and  the  whiteness 
of  the  snow  combined  to  daze  him.  He  walked 
like  a  man  in  a  trance.  Subconsciously  his 
mind  worked,  came  to  the  state  I  have  shown 
you.  In  this  mood  he  formed  certain  aphor- 
isms, some  possibly  already  known  by  him; 
some  new,  created  from  old  material. 


Aphorisms  193 

"  Cogito,  ergo  sum, — I  think,  therefore  I 
exist,"  being  the  first  of  them  it  led  easily  to 
his  second. 

"Thought  is  a  creative  power.  Think 
deeply,  and  you  will  create  greatly."  Ergo, 
by  dwelling  with  every  particle  of  his  mind 
on  the  thought  of  the  woman  he  sought,  he 
would  create  her. 

"Hope  is  a  collective  force.  Terror  and 
doubt  disperse  what  you  have  thereby  ac- 
quired." Ergo,  hope  was  the  thought  by 
which  he  would  collect  material  for  his  crea- 
tion. To  allow  terror  or  doubt  to  work 
alongside  would  be  to  undertake  one  of  the 
seven  labours  of  Hercules. 

"Desire,  being  also  thought  and  thereby 
creative,  brings  its  own  attainment."  Ergo, 
he  desired  the  woman  he  sought  and  would 
attain  to  her.  This  was  as  certain  as  that  a 
wheat  seed  can  bring  forth  nought  but  wheat. 
It  became,  to  his  mind,  a  law  of  Nature.  You 
see  each  of  his  aphorisms  harping  to  the  same 
end.  Doubtless  there  were  plenty  more  of 
them.  Those  I  have  given  you  will  suffice. 
13 


194  The  Jester 

Coming  near  the  summit  of  the  hill  he  made 
out  a  wayside  cross,  backgrounded  by  the 
pines.  It  stood  weather-beaten  and  solitary. 
Here  and  there  the  stone  was  hidden  by  yellow 
fungus  and  grey  lichen.  Below  it  knelt  a 
figure.  For  a  breathing  space  Peregrine  felt 
his  heart  bound.  The  next  instant  he  had 
himself  and  his  heart  well  under  control. 
No  second  time  would  he  give  way  to  mere 
fancy.  Here  he  was  very  wise.  Coming 
further  he  saw  a  little  peasant  girl,  ragged  and 
ill  clad.  At  the  foot  of  the  cross  she  had  laid 
a  bunch  of  holly.  She  turned  on  his  approach, 
looking  at  him  with  wide  childish  eyes. 

"I  give  you  good -day,  sir, "  she  said  shyly, 
as  he  paused  a  moment. 

"  Good  -day/ '  responded  Peregrine,  though 
in  no  mood  to  term  it  truly  good. 

"I — I  have  laid  the  holly  there,"  she  said, 
as  seeing  him  still  stop  she  sought  for  con- 
versation. 

"A  pretty  thought,"  said  Peregrine  indul- 
gently. It  was  no  more  in  his  nature  to  snub 
a  child  than  to  strike  an  animal. 


Aphorisms  195 

"I  often  bring  flowers,"  pursued  the  little 
maid.  "First  there  are  daffodils  and  prim- 
roses to  bring.  They  are  very  fresh  and 
sweet.  Later  come  bluebells  and  herb  Robert. 
They  are  not  so  pleasant-scented.  Next  come 
roses  and  honeysuckle.  They  are  the  most 
fragrant  of  all.  In  the  autumn  there  are 
always  leaves,  which  are  as  pretty  as  flowers, 
when  they  are  red  and  gold.  Now  there  is 
holly." 

"That  is  pretty  too,"  said  Peregrine. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  child.  "But  it  is  sad. 
It  is  very  thorny,  and  the  berries  are  red  like 
blood.  When  I  see  it  I  think  of  the  crown 
of  thorns,  and  Christ's  death." 

"A  sorrowful  fancy,"  said  Peregrine,  and 
somewhat  uneasily. 

"'Tis  not  a  fancy,"  averred  the  child, 
discriminating  nicely.  "'Tis  a  thought.  Fan- 
cies may  not  be  over  good." 

"Truly,"  smiled  Peregrine,  finding  amuse- 
ment despite  himself  at  the  earnest  tone  of 
the  small  discriminator.  "What  manner  of 
fancies,  may  I  ask?" 


196  The  Jester 

Gravely  she  surveyed  him.  There  was  no 
mockery  in  his  smile.  An'  there  had  been 
she  would  have  held  her  peace.  Instead  she 
cogitated,  seeking  to  make  her  meaning  clear. 

"I  know,"  she  said  wisely  after  a  moment, 
1 '  that  there  are  evil  spirits  in  the  world.  They 
roam  abroad,  especially  in  darkness.  I  used 
to  fancy  we  were  all  safer  from  their  power 
from  Christmas  till  Ascension  Day.  I  fancied 
Christ  truly  on  the  earth  during  that  time. 
After  Ascension  Day  He  seemed  further  away, 
and  sometimes  I  was  frighted.  I  told  this  to 
Father  Bernard.  He  said  that  it  was  merely 
fancy.  He  said  Our  Lord  was  ever  present 
now  upon  the  earth  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament, 
in  greater  glory  now  than  when  He  lived  on 
earth  before.  I  have  forgotten  what  more  he 
said ;  but  I  am  no  longer  frighted  when  Ascen- 
sion Day  is  past.  You  see,  what  I  held  be- 
fore was  fancy,  and — and — I  cannot  tell  you 
rightly,  but  Father  Bernard  would  show  you 
that  fancies  are  not  the  same  as  thoughts/ ' 

"Humph!"  said  Peregrine,  having  no  mind 
to  test  the  perspicacity  of  Father  Bernard  or 


Aphorisms  197 

any  other  priest  on  the  matter.  He  hitched 
his  cloak  closer  around  him,  ready  to  start 
again  on  his  way.  The  movement  disclosed 
his  tabor  hanging  by  a  frayed  ribbon  from 
his  neck.  The  child  saw  it;  curiosity  was 
quick  astir. 

"What  is  that?"  she  demanded,  finger 
pointing. 

"My  tabor,"  returned  Peregrine. 

1 '  Tabor  ? ' '  she  queried .  The  word  as  well  as 
the  instrument  was  unknown  to  her.  "What 
is  a  tabor?" 

"A  musical  instrument,"  said  Peregrine, 
smiling  at  the  little  ignoramus. 

"Music!"  Her  eyes  sparkled,  her  cheeks 
glowed.  "Ah,  play  it!"  This  was  on  a  note 
of  deep  entreaty. 

Peregrine  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Here 
was  an  interlude  in  his  former  mood  of  black- 
ness. It  was  not  wholly  distasteful.  You 
have  seen  that  he  favoured  children.  He 
found  quaintness  in  this  one. 

"What  shall  I  play  for  you?"  he  demanded, 
unslinging  the  instrument. 


198  The  Jester 

"Play  while  I  sing, "  she  said  firmly.  "That 
will  sound  well." 

Peregrine  chuckled.  "Truly  that  depends 
on  the  singing,' '  quoth  he.  "On,  then,  with 
the  song." 

Birdlike  her  voice  rose  in  the  pure  air. 
Peregrine  catching  the  melody  came  in  with 
the  tabor.     Here  is  what  she  sang. 


Of  one  that  is  so  fair  and  bright 

Velut  maris  stella, 
Brighter  than  the  day  is  light, 

Parens  et  puella: 
I  cry  to  thee,  thou  see  to  me, 
Lady,  pray  thy  Son  for  me, 

Tarn  pia, 
That  I  may  come  to  thee 

Maria. 


All  this  world  was  forlorn 

Eva  peccatrice. 
Till  our  Lord  was  here  born 

De  te  genetrice. 
With  ave  it  went  away 
Darkling  night,  and  comes  the  day 

Salutis; 
The  well  springeth  out  of  thee, 

Virtutis. 


Aphorisms  199 


Lady,  flower  of  each  thing, 

Rosa  sine  spina, 
Thou  bear'st  Jesus,  Heaven's  King, 

Gratia  divina: 
Of  all  thou  bear'st  the  prize, 
Lady,  queen  of  paradise 

Electa: 
Maid  mild,  Mother  es 

Effecta. 


"There,"  she  cried  triumphant,  as  she 
ended,  most  innocently  pleased  with  the 
performance,  "I  said  it  would  sound  well." 

"Liquid  silver  notes  from  a  throat  of  gold, " 
said  Peregrine,  verily  astonished.  "An'  I 
had  not  other  matters  on  hand,  you  and 
I  might  well  roam  the  world  together, 
and  men  would  truly  hearken  to  us,  or 
they  are  greater  dullards  than  even  I  judge 
them." 

She  looked  at  him  with  longing  eyes.  His 
words  held  open  a  vista  of  bliss  before  her. 
But  she  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"It  cannot  be.  I  have  work  to  do, "  she 
said  sorrowful. 

"For    that    matter    so    indeed    have   I," 


200  The  Jester 

quoth  Peregrine.  "What  manner  of  work  is 
thine?" 

"I  mind  my  father's  goats, "  she  responded. 
"What  work  is  yours ?" 

"I  seek  some  one/'  said  Peregrine  grimly. 

"Some  one  you  have  lost?" 

"Some  one  I  have  never  found,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  Oh , "  responded  the  child  perplexed .  Then 
shyly,  "I  must  be  about  my  work.  I  thank 
you,  sir.  God  speed  you  with  your  seeking." 
Waiting  for  no  response  she  nodded  to  him, 
turned  off  into  the  pine  wood. 

Peregrine  went  slowly  on  his  way. 

The  interlude  had  come  happily.  There  is 
a  healthful  sanity  in  a  child's  company,  even 
if  it  endure  but  a  brief  space.  Peregrine  felt 
his  mind  somewhat  cleansed  of  the  murki- 
ness  which  had  enshrouded  it.  He  began  to 
picture  the  woman  he  sought  as  present  with 
him.  This  eased  his  mind  for  a  while,  even 
though  it  tantalized.  It  lifted  him  to  a  more 
exalted  mood.  He  identified  her  with  the 
Spirit  of  Life  around  him,  saw  her  passing 


Aphorisms  201 

over  the  snow  swift-footed,  fancied  her  coming 
from  among  the  pines  towards  him,  heard 
her  voice  in  the  light  breeze  which  stirred 
them.  He  held  her  thus  in  his  thought 
throughout  the  day.  He  saw  her  image  in 
the  glowing  sunset,  fancied  the  purpling  light 
across  the  hills  the  spreading  of  her  veil.  So 
far  so  good.  With  the  night,  fatigue  de- 
scended on  him.  There  comes  a  point  in  this 
state  when  fancy  cannot  readily  be  embraced, 
nor  even  held  though  formerly  present. 
Reality  is  required  upon  which  to  rest  the 
mind.  This  Peregrine  had  not.  Fancy  slip- 
ping from  him  left  him  desolate.  He  was 
also  very  hungry.  Fate  had  thrown  no  dwell- 
ing in  his  path  whereat  he  could  beg  bread. 
Therefore  he  had  not  broken  his  fast  since 
early  morning.  The  needs  of  nature  joining 
with  desolation  of  mind  to  bear  him  down,  he 
found  himself  heavily  weighted. 

Darkness  lay  around  him.  The  sky,  which 
at  close  of  sunset  had  clouded,  brought  very 
meagre  light  to  guide  him.  Only  the  faint 
glimmer  of  the  white  road  before  him  gave 


202  The  Jester 

him  his  route.  He  stumbled  on,  sinking  at 
times  knee  deep  in  the  snow,  where  it  lay 
drifted  beneath  the  wall. 

The  wind  began  to  rise,  and  with  it  feath- 
ery flakes  came  silent  and  insidious.  They 
touched  his  cheek  like  soft  cold  kisses.  You 
would  never  have  dreamed  danger  in  their 
tenderness.  They  came  faster,  thicker.  The 
wind  swirled  them  in  a  dancing  maze.  A  few 
steps  further,  and  a  blizzard  was  upon  him. 
The  wind  rushing  from  the  north  smote  him 
that  he  could  barely  stand.  The  snow  leaped 
and  flashed  around  him,  blinding,  suffocating. 
He  staggered  on  doggedly. 

"An*  I  stop  now  I  never  find  her."  That 
was  his  thought,  barely  articulate  even  to  his 
own  mind. 

In  his  stress  forgotten  habit  came  to  him. 
A  prayer  rose  to  his  lips.  He  put  it  swift 
aside.  Long  ago  he  had  prayed,  believed  in 
prayer,  in  God,  in  a  woman  he  had  created, — 
a  woman  who  had  prayed.  She  had  mocked 
at  him ;  cast  him  from  her.  Therefore  he  had 
put  her  and  her  beliefs  from  him,  and  with 


Aphorisms  203 

them  his  own,  being  like  to  hers.  In  this  you 
see  sheer  stupidity,  and  rightly.  The  Creator 
is  not  responsible  for  hypocrisy  in  His  creatures. 
That  is  where  the  Devil  comes  in  with  his 
handling  of  matters.  This  Peregrine  had  not 
seen  formerly,  nor  was  like  to  do  so  now, 
blinded  and  stupefied  as  he  was  by  his  con- 
flict with  the  snow. 

Putting  prayer  aside,  then,  he  trusted  to  his 
own  efforts.  It  is  certain  that  he  lacked  not 
courage  of  a  kind.  His  arm  up  shielding  his 
face,  he  struggled  on.  His  breath  came  in 
sobbing  gasps.  A  dark  mass  looming  before 
him  brought  him  to  a  halt.  From  out  the 
mass  gleamed  a  faint  light  piercing  the  snow- 
driven  atmosphere.  He  took  a  step  towards 
it,  and  sank  in  a  drift  to  his  thigh.  For  a 
moment  he  struggled,  but  to  sink  the  deeper. 
Well-nigh  spent,  drowsiness  was  falling  on 
him.  It  seemed  that  further  effort  availed 
him  nought.  As  well  rest  now  as  not;  rest 
and  sleep. 

In  the  blinding  snow  around  him  he  thought 
he  saw  a  woman  standing.     She  came  nearer, 


204  The  Jester 

bending  to  him.  Now  indeed  he  cried,  "At 
last!"  and  stretched  out  his  arms.  Even  as 
he  cried,  he  saw  her  eyes.  They  were  aveng- 
ing, terrible.  .  .  .  The  snow  was  like  a  white 
flame  round  her.  .  .  . 

Shuddering  with  more  than  cold,  he  looked 
full  at  her.  Then  unconsciousness  fell  upon 
him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


THE    SAGE 


IWI ENIPPUS  LACHESIS,  sitting  in  his  turret 
chamber,  was  poring  over  a  parchment. 
You  may  be  very  sure  this  was  not  the  name 
with  which  his  parents  had  started  him  in 
life.  It  was  with  one  simpler.  I  have  heard 
it  rumoured  that  once  on  a  time  he  was  known 
as  Thomas  Herdman, — a  good  honest  appel- 
lation truly.  That  time,  however,  was  now 
many  years  old,  and  rumour  can  easily  go 
astray;  indeed,  rumour  wandering  from  the 
mark  more  often  than  not,  there  is  little  cre- 
dence to  be  put  in  that  quarter.  At  all  events 
it  is  sufficient  for  our  purpose  that  he  was  now 
known  as  above  set  forth, — Menippus  Lache- 
sis,  the  Sage,  reader  of  the  riddle  of  the  stars, 
gazer  of  crystals,  philosopher  of  numbers,  and 

penetrater  into    the   secrets    of  life.     Many 

205 


206  The  Jester 

men  sought  his  wisdom,  and  if  they  left  him 
little  the  wiser,  through  the  multiplicity  of  his 
words  or  the  brevity  of  his  cryptic  utterances, 
either  of  which  was  given  them  according 
to  their  needs  as  figured  by  Menippus,  that 
doubtless  was  due  to  their  own  lack  of  recep- 
tiveness. 

The  turret  chamber  was  a  circular  room 
hung  with  twelve  blue  curtains.  To  the  north 
the  curtains  were  indigo;  they  then  passed 
through  shades  of  sapphire  to  a  clear  light  blue 
at  the  south,  and  back  again  through  sapphire 
blue  to  indigo.  Here  you  have  shown  the 
darkness  of  the  winter  months,  lightening 
through  spring  to  summer,  and  back  again  to 
the  darkness  of  winter.  Each  curtain  was 
embroidered  in  gold  with  its  own  sign  of  the 
Zodiac,  from  the  Ram,  through  the  rest  of 
them  to  the  Fishes. 

On  the  table  near  him,  lying  on  black  vel- 
vet the  better  to  avoid  reflections,  was  an 
egg-shaped  crystal.  A  pretty  enough  thing 
it  was,  with  its  smooth  surface  clear  and 
very  luminous,  true  rock  crystal,  wherein  your 


The  Sage  207 

least  initiated  may  gaze  with  advantage,  so 
termed.  For  my  part,  I  will  take  leave  to 
question  the  advantage.  By  the  crystal  stood 
a  gold  vessel,  cup-shaped,  quaintly  wrought 
with  devices,  of  which  the  most  obvious  was 
the  pentagram.  It  held  a  purplish  liquid  of 
the  consistency  of  ink. 

The  room  had  no  windows.  At  all  times  it 
was  lighted  by  a  small  hanging  lamp,  two  gold 
wings  bearing  between  them  a  red  glass 
holding  oil  and  a  burning  wick.  For  the 
better  lighting  of  the  place  when  the  Sage  was 
at  his  studies,  there  were  a  couple  of  candles 
set  in  bronze  candlesticks. 

Menippus,  reading  from  the  parchment, 
paused  now  and  again  to  peer  into  the  gold 
cup,  or  look  a  moment  towards  the  crystal. 
That  some  weighty  matter  was  under  con- 
sideration might  be  judged  by  the  wrinkling 
of  his  brow,  and  the  tapping  of  his  clawlike 
finger  on  the  table.  A  tall  man,  this  Menippus, 
he  looked  the  part  himself,  or  Fate,  had  given 
him  exceeding  well.  His  hair,  white  and 
plentiful,  fell  straight  on  either  side  his  face, 


208  The  Jester 

and  to  the  nape  of  his  neck.  His  moustache 
and  beard  were  of  glossy  silkiness.  The 
latter,  pointed,  touched  the  third  button  of 
his  black  gown  fashioned  not  unlike  a  priest's 
cassock,  the  sleeves  only  being  somewhat 
wider  and  looser.  Round  his  neck  hung  a 
gold  chain,  and  from  it  a  gold  device.  The 
centre  thereof  was  a  small  cross  set  within  a 
triangle.  Without  the  triangle  was  a  circle, 
and  without  the  circle  a  second  triangle. 

On  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  he  wore 
a  large  seal  ring,  the  setting  blackened  silver, 
the  seal  itself  very  ancient,  reddish  stone, 
carved  with  devices  as  follows:  Man  in  his 
potential  divinity  (I  give  the  reading  Menip- 
pus  would  have  given  you)  before  the  Fire 
Altar,  backed  by  the  Pillar  of  Truth,  and 
looking  towards  the  Trinity  (Pagan),  Man, 
Woman,  and  Child:  these  three  surmounted 
by  the  Supreme, — a  Woman  crowned  with  the 
Sun;  behind  her,  the  Cornucopia,  before  her, 
the  Caduceous;  behind  the  Pillar  of  Truth, 
the  Crescent  Moon,  horns  pointing  upwards; 
above  it,  a  seven-pointed   star.     About  his 


The  Sage  209 

head  he  wore  a  thin  gold  fillet,  in  the  centre 
was  placed  a  Rising  Sun.  To  those  versed  in 
such  matters  the  sun,  the  ring,  and  the  symbol 
at  his  breast  showed  him  as  belonging  to  the 
Ancient  Order  of  Lux.  An  exceeding  ancient 
Order  this,  Egyptian,  and  dating  from  far 
beyond  the  time  of  Solomon. 

Where  and  how  Menippus  received  his 
initiation  into  this  Order  was  a  mystery,  but 
that  his  initiation  was  more  than  the  mere 
wearing  of  the  symbols  of  the  Order,  he  proved 
in  vastly  more  ways  than  one.  The  few  who 
came  to  his  tower  to  leave  it  with  greater 
knowledge  than  was  contained  in  multipli- 
city of  words  and  brief  cryptic  utterances, 
left  it  with  sealed  lips,  but  with  hearts  wherein 
awe  and  dread  were  strangely  intermingled. 
Such  power  as  Menippus  showed  them  was 
unquestionably  power,  but  whence  it  came 
was  another  matter. 

A  high-nosed,  thin-lipped  man  he  was,  his 

face  yellow  like  the  parchments  he  studied. 

His  eyes,  black  as  sloes,  and  very  piercing, 

were    set    beneath    shaggy    eyebrows.     The 

14 


2io  The  Jester 

lids  of  them  folding  far  back  at  his  will,  left 
them  at  times  staring  and  unblinking.  This 
gave  them  an  hypnotic  power.  At  other 
times,  when  in  deep  thought,  they  cut  across 
the  pupil  of  the  eye;  then  you  saw  the  eyes 
heavy-lidded.  This  alteration  of  the  eye- 
lids' form  was  a  marked  characteristic  of  his. 
It  set  the  hearts  of  curious  women — those  who 
sought  his  wisdom — a-beating ;  more  than  once 
sent  them  scuttling  like  frightened  hens  to  the 
door,  and  adown  the  stairs,  while  Menippus  sat 
chuckling  cynically.  Weak  enough  to  desire 
his  power  to  be  sought  and  acknowledged 
by  all  men,  mere  curiosity  bored  him  vastly. 
You  may  judge  that  he  was  more  often  bored 
by  his  visitors  than  not.  Vanity  alone  made 
boredom  worth  the  enduring.  It  was  a 
strange  quality  to  find  in  a  man  of  his  age 
and  power.  Pride  and  unscrupulousness  one 
might  well  expect;  but  here  was  a  strain  of 
weakness  running  through  his  strength,  one 
which  had  endured  from  his  earliest  years. 
It  is  perchance  needless  to  say  that  but  for  it 
he  would  have  been  greater  than  he  was,  and 


The  Sage  211 

he  was  no  small  man  intellectually  no  more 
than  physically.  This  same  vanity  had  led 
him  into  works  no  man  dare  even  name  with 
impunity. 

Turning  now  from  the  parchment  before 
him,  he  fetched  a  deep  sigh,  let  his  gaze  rest 
ardently  on  the  crystal.  Now  you  see  the 
heavy  lids  cutting  the  pupils  in  a  straight 
line.  An'  you  had  seen  more,  had  seen  with 
those  same  heavy-lidded  black  eyes,  you  would 
have  seen  the  crystal  cloud  to  milkiness,  first 
a  mere  drop  in  its  clearness,  spreading  gradu- 
ally across  the  whole.  The  cloudiness  gave 
way  to  light,  sudden  and  brilliant,  at  first 
many-hued  as  a  rainbow,  then  turning  to  a 
clear  whiteness.  Across  the  whiteness  rode 
a  ship  full-sailed.  Here  was  the  definite 
signal  of  on-coming  vision.  Next,  and  you 
must  take  the  vision  with  what  credence  you 
may,  he  saw  a  man  struggling  through  a  snow- 
storm, blinded,  dazed.  He  watched  more 
closely.  Could  you  have  read  his  mind,  you 
would  have  known  the  sight  not  unexpected. 
It  held  the  interpretation  to  certain  cryptic 


212  The  Jester 

utterances  in  the  parchment  spread  before 
him.  I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  how 
these  things  may  be ;  I  but  give  you  as  plainly 
as  I  am  able  all  that  chanced  on  that  night 
of  snow  and  storm,  and  that  which  followed 
after.  With  the  powers  that  leagued  together 
in  the  handling  of  the  matter  I  desire  no 
dealing.  An'  the  whole  happening  had  not 
close  bearing  on  the  history  of  Peregrine 
it  might  well  be  omitted.  Being,  however, 
close  bound  with  him  at  the  moment,  and 
with  that  which  was  to  befall  him  later,  it  is 
encumbent  on  me,  and  I  would  be  a  fair 
chronicler,  to  set  it  plainly  forth.  In  the 
crystal,  then,  Menippus  saw  a  man  strug- 
gling through  the  snow,  saw  him  coming  ever 
nearer,  saw  him  sink  at  last  as  we  have  seen 
him.  At  this  the  vision  was  obliterated. 
Returning  to  concrete  surroundings,  he  saw 
the  crystal  lying  on  the  black  velvet,  catch- 
ing the  glow  from  the  hanging  lamp,  naught 
else  pictured  within  it. 

Menippus  got   quickly  to  his  feet,   made 
his  way  to  the  door. 


The  Sage  213 

"Castrano, "  he  called. 

A  huge  negro  came  silently  from  behind  a 
curtain. 

"Come  on  the  instant,"  said  Menippus. 
"I  need  your  aid.  A  man  lies  in  a  snow-drift 
without." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  CHOICE 

DEREGRINE,  returning  to  consciousness, 
and  unaware  at  the  first  of  his  surround- 
ings, believed  the  snow  to  be  an  exceeding 
warm  bed.  This  being  so  he  lay  still  a  while, 
very  grateful  for  the  repose  to  his  aching 
limbs.  Anon  he  opened  his  eyes,  saw  above 
him  a  dark  arched  roof,  over  which  light 
flickered,  saw  before  him  the  steady  flame  of 
a  small  lamp.  This  phenomena  struck  him 
as  curious  to  find  in  a  snow-drift,  brought  him 
to  further  investigation.  Now  he  found  that 
he  lay  not  on  snow,  but  on  a  couch,  soft  and 
luxurious,  warm  covering  spread  over  him. 
Marvelling  greatly  he  turned  his  head,  found 
himself  in  a  room,  saw  the  flickering  light  to 
come  from  a  wood  fire  on  a  great  hearth. 

By  the  hearth  a  man  was  sitting  reading 
214 


The  Choice  215 

from  a  large  book  propped  on  a  stand  before 
him.  Behind  him  was  a  shelf  holding  bottles, 
crucibles,  and  other  glass  vessels,  some  con- 
taining dark  shapes,  exceeding  unpleasant  to 
look  upon.  On  three  pedestals  stood  three 
figures;  Clotho,  who  according  to  the  Ancients 
spins  the  Thread  of  Life;  Lachesis,  who  sees 
to  its  guiding,  and  whom  Menippus  had  taken 
for  his  patroness;  Atropus,  who  cuts  it  when 
she  and  her  sisters  will.  Peregrine  looked  at 
this  last  with  interest.  He  fancied  she  had 
but  lately  had  her  shears  in  hand  for  him, 
frustrated  only  by  her  sister,  Lachesis.  In 
this  thought  he  possibly  shot  pretty  near  the 
mark. 

Then  he  saw  that  Menippus  had  turned 
towards  him,  was  surveying  him  gravely,  the 
while  one  skinny  finger  kept  the  place  in  his 
book. 

"So  you  have  come  to  yourself,' '  said 
Menippus. 

"I  have  evidently  you  to  thank  as  my 
rescuer/ '  said  Peregrine  struggling  to  his 
elbow. 


216  The  Jester 

"Lie  still, "  said  Menippus  briefly.  "It 
is  sometimes  doubtful  whether  thanks  are 
due  in  such  a  matter.  On  this  occasion, 
however,  believing  that  you  owe  them,  I 
accept  them  from  you.  It  were  well  that  you 
rested  for  a  time.  I  would,  however,  converse 
with  you.     What  brought  you  hither?" 

"Foolishness, "  said  Peregrine  very  dryly. 

"There  I  take  leave  to  differ  from  you," 
remarked  Menippus.  "Curiosity  or  wisdom 
might  have  led  you  an'  you  had  come  of  set 
purpose.  Believing  neither  to  have  had  a 
hand  in  the  matter,  I  see  rather  the  guidance  of 
my  patroness  Lachesis."  Turning  he  bowed 
towards  one  of  the  three  figures. 

"Truly,"  smiled  Peregrine  ruefully,  "her 
sister  had  her  shears  ready  to  the  thread." 

"Ha!  you  recognize  them.  That  is  well. 
Yet,  despite  the  guidance  of  Lachesis,  I  can 
fancy  you  imagined  some  guidance  of  your 
own?" 

"Rather  the  guidance  of  a  myth  I  pursued 
to  my  own  undoing,"  said  Peregrine. 

"There   again   I   must  make  correction.," 


The  Choice  217 

remarked  Menippus  very  suavely.  "What- 
ever myth  you  pursued,  you  pursued  it  to 
your   advantage,    since   it   led   you  hither. " 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  laughed  Pere- 
grine, "I  am  too  weary  to  do  combat  with 
you." 

Menippus  took  his  finger  out  of  the  book 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  He  looked 
gravely  at  Peregrine.  There  was  a  note  in 
the  laughter  which  showed  less  respect  than 
he  considered  his  due.  Briefly,  his  vanity,  a 
tender  commodity,  was  pricked. 

"Putting  for  the  nonce, "  he  said,  "laughter 
aside,  I  would  have  you  speak  more  plainly. 
Show  me  shortly  the  myth  you  pursued. " 

Here  was  a  slight  air  of  command,  which 
for  a  moment  stung  the  Jester.  The  next, 
humour  prevailed.  He  saw  matter  for  amuse- 
ment in  the  evident  seriousness  of  the  other. 
It  was  plain  that  he  took  himself  by  no  means 
lightly. 

"Well,"  quoth  Peregrine,  "since  you  desire 
brevity  in  the  account  you  shall  have  it.  I 
had  a  dream,  a  vision,  call  it  what  you  will." 


218  The  Jester 

"What  manner  of  vision ?"  demanded 
Menippus. 

"The  vision  of  a  woman, "  replied  Peregrine. 
"Though  it  was  but  in  vision  I  saw  her,  I 
believed  her  to  exist  in  reality,  hence  I  set  out 
to  find  her.  I  have  pursued  her  for  over  a 
year.  Plainly,  I  know  not  truly  whether  she 
exists  or  no.  At  times  I  have  been  certain 
of  her  reality;  at  times  the  certainty  has 
fallen  from  me.  A  moment  or  so  agone  it  had 
left  me.  Now,  in  speaking  of  her  again,  I  am 
very  sure  she  lives.  There  is  the  matter  in  a 
nutshell.  'Tis  a  tantalizing  enough  quest  for 
a  man,  and  maybe  I  am  a  fool  to  pursue  it. 
At  times  I  see  the  folly  very  plainly,  at  times 
I  see  in  it  naught  but  the  clearest  sanity/' 

Menippus  drew  down  his  eyelids.  His 
finger-tips  together  he  spoke  smoothly. 

"Presuming  the  quest  sane,  presuming  it 
fulfilled,  what  think  you  to  gain  when  you 
have  found  her?" 

"That,"  said  Peregrine  quietly,  "will  lie 
between  her  and  me."  The  Sage's  tone  had 
struck  strangely  on  his  heart.     It  brought 


The  Choice  219 

with  it  at  once  hope  and  danger.  Here  it  is 
none  too  easy  to  make  my  meaning  clear.  It 
was  as  though,  on  the  one  hand,  the  Sage  had 
knowledge  of  the  truth  of  the  quest,  yet,  on 
the  other,  would  put  hindrance  in  its  way. 
The  full  articulation  of  the  thought  came 
not  entirely  home  to  Peregrine ;  he  but  scented 
the  matter  as  it  were  from  afar.  The  Sage's 
next  words  brought  amazement  to  him. 

"I  know  the  woman  you  seek,"  he  said 
briefly.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  assur- 
ance of  the  tone. 

"You  have  seen  her?"  he  cried,  even  as  he 
had  cried  to  Simon. 

"Verily  I  have,"  returned  Menippus. 
"Now  listen.  Pursuit  of  her  is  of  little 
avail;  that  you  have  fully  proved.  I  know 
her  dwelling.  She  welcomes  not  all  men  to  her 
presence.  That  you  have  had  vision  of  her 
shows  me  that  she  desires  yours.  There  is  no 
need  to  question  at  the  moment  how  this  may 
be.  We,  who  study  the  riddle  of  the  Universe, 
know  well  that  there  are  matters  which  lie 
beyond  the  comprehension  of  ordinary  mor- 


220  The  Jester 

tals.  Doubtless  you  would  find  it  hard  to 
understand  how  I  should  have  been  aware  of 
your  presence  in  the  snow-drift  without  mak- 
ing use  of  my  physical  faculties, — in  this  case 
the  sight  of  my  eyes.  Nevertheless  I  did 
know,  and  to  my  knowledge  is  due  the  fact 
that  you  are  now  lying  upon  that  couch. 
That  is  to  us  a  simple  matter,  the  A  B  C  of 
our  Science.  In  fact  I  doubt  me  that  it  goes 
beyond  A.  It  is  a  mere  question  of  vibration, 
to  which  the  customarily  accepted  channels 
of  communication  are  a  hindrance  rather 
than  a  help.  You  will  discover  this  in  the 
case  of  the  blind.  Deprived  of  the  coarser 
physical  attributes  of  sight,  which  read  merely 
the  heavy  and  slow  vibrations,  the  mind  is 
alert  and  attuned  to  the  light  and  quick 
vibrations,  which  are,  in  a  sense,  of  spirit 
rather  than  of  matter.  To  make  my  mean- 
ing clearer, — one  possessed  of  physical  sight 
interprets  rightly  the  vibrations  received  from 
an  object  before  his  eyes.  This  object  emits 
heavy  vibrations,  which  reach  and  correspond 
to  the  physical  vibrations  of  the  eye.     Every 


The  Choice  221 

object,  whether  near  or  far,  whether  hidden 
or  actually  apparent,  emits  vibrations,  since 
all  matter  is  alive.  But, — and  this  I  would 
have  you  note  particularly, — that  which  is 
afar  and  hidden  emits  lighter  vibrations,  which 
cannot  so  readily  be  interpreted  by  a  human 
being,  who  is,  by  reason  of  the  possession 
of  his  physical  senses,  endowed  with  coarser 
vibrations.  This  is  not  always  the  case. 
There  are  those,  who,  in  full  possession  of  all 
their  physical  faculties,  are  yet  able  to  receive, 
and  at  times  interpret,  the  lightest  vibrations 
in  the  Universe.  But  this  is  rare.  You  may 
take  it  as  a  general  rule,  that  a  blind  man  is 
more  readily  sensitive  to  hidden  objects  than 
one  in  possession  of  his  sight,  more  readily 
aware  of  the  presence  of  the  quick  and  light 
vibrations  of  the  spirit  world.  Again,  a  deaf 
man  can  receive  the  vibrations  of  sound  from 
that  same  world,  where  one  in  possession  of 
his  hearing  is  dulled  to  them  by  reason  of  the 
presence  of  the  coarser  vibrations.  This,  no 
doubt,  is  strange  to  you,  nevertheless  it  is  a 
fact. "     He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a 


222  The  Jester 

sigh,  as  of  one  who  should  say  all  this  is  mere 
child's  play,  yet  it  were  well  to  give  it  to  you. 

1  'Candidly,  I  find  it  exceeding  bewilder- 
ing, "  said  Peregrine. 

"Under  my  tuition  the  bewilderment  will 
pass,"  said  Menippus  indulgently.  "I  see 
you  rarely  endowed.  You  need  but  guidance 
and  teaching  in  the  matter.  This  I  propose 
to  give  you." 

Peregrine  smiled  somewhat  grimly.  "I 
doubt  that  you  find  in  me  an  over-apt  pupil, " 
he  returned.  "Also,  to  what  end  may  the 
teaching  be?  And  how  shall  it  lead  me 
further  on  my  quest,  which  I  tell  you  very 
plainly  I  mean  to  pursue?" 

Menippus  pointed  to  the  door. 

"There,"  he  said,  "is  your  way  out.  You 
can  leave  me  on  the  instant  an*  you  will; 
pursue  your  quest  your  own  way.  You  have 
proved  whether  it  has  so  far  been  successful 
or  no.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  abide  here 
with  me,  receive  the  instructions  I  will  give 
you,  I  will  lead  you  anon  to  the  woman  you 
seek.     By  yourself  you  will  never  find  her; 


The  Choice  223 

through  me  you  will.  You  may  see  my  words 
fairy-tale  invention  an'  you  choose.  You 
have  free  choice  in  the  matter.  Think  well 
on  it. "  He  turned  calmly  to  his  book,  bend- 
ing close  over  the  pages.  For  aught  of  con- 
sideration he  now  gave  Peregrine  he  might 
have  been  non-existent. 

Peregrine  lay  still,  gnawing  his  finger 
thoughtfully.  Truly  he  did  not  particularly 
like  the  turn  of  matters.  There  was  an 
unhealthy  atmosphere  about  the  close-draped 
apartment  and  the  man's  words  which  he 
found  distasteful.  An'  the  woman  were  in- 
deed in  existence  he  had  rather  trust  to  his 
own  self  to  find  her.     Yet  .  .  . 

In  this  word  he  summed  up  the  past  year 
and  more;  saw  himself  weary,  footsore,  hun- 
gry, moreover  sick  at  heart,  and  no  nearer 
fulfilment  of  his  quest,  to  all  appearance,  than 
at  the  outset.  Here  was  definite  promise  of 
fulfilment.  It  was  the  unhealthiness  of  the 
man  before  him  that  displeased  him.  He  saw 
the  face  of  the  woman  clear-eyed,  wonderful, 
as  he  had  seen  her  on  the  first  day  of  his 


224  The  Jester 

vision,  not  as  he  had  seen  her  as  he  lay  in 
the  snow.  That  he  believed  now  to  be  but 
the  distorted  image  of  a  fevered  imagination. 
How  should  the  woman  he  knew  in  his  dreams 
have  dealing  with  this  old  Sage?  In  one 
breath  Peregrine  found  the  notion  unendur- 
able; in  the  next,  an*  the  Sage  spoke  truth, 
he  saw  here  the  only  means  of  meeting  with 
her.  Yet  did  he  speak  truth?  There  was 
the  crux  of  the  whole  question.  Perchance  it 
were  wisdom  to  stay  a  while,  and  put  the 
matter  to  the  test.  An'  the  promise  were  not 
proved,  he  could  set  out  anew  on  his  own 
account.  In  the  meantime  he  must  stay 
as  pupil.  This  he  found  somewhat  nauseat- 
ing to  his  mind.  His  senses  now  more  fully 
awake,  he  found  the  odour  of  the  room  strange, 
a  curious  mixture  of  burning  herbs,  incense, 
and  with  it  the  scent  of  accumulated  dust. 
No  breath  of  outside  air  reached  his  nostrils. 
The  atmosphere  was  as  unwholesome  physi- 
cally as  his  mental  conception  of  it.  Thus 
he  vacillated  between  remaining  and  depart- 
ing.    Finally  he  made  his  choice.     Truly  it 


The  Choice  225 

was  made  somewhat  sulkily,  and  for  lack  of 
seeing  a  better  one. 

"I  will  remain,"  he  said. 

Menippus  raised  his  head,  looked  at  him  as 
one  bewildered. 

"You  spoke?"  he  asked. 

"I  said  I  would  remain, "  returned  Peregrine 
a  trifle  testily.  When  one  has  stated  a  dim- 
cult  and  reluctant  decision,  it  is  none  too 
pleasant  to  be  obliged  to  repeat  the  state- 
ment. It  is  in  a  manner  lowering  to  one's 
dignity. 

"You  do  well,"  returned  Menippus  calmly. 
"Yet  I  would  have  you  bear  in  mind  it  is  by 
your  own  free  will  that  you  remain. " 

"I  am  wholly  aware  of  it,"  retorted  Pere- 
grine. This  insistence  on  the  matter  dis- 
pleased him. 

"I  will  now,"  continued  Menippus  still 
calmly,    "send   for   food.     You   must   eat." 

"I  need  food  strangely  little,"  quoth  Pere- 
grine,    "seeing    I    have    gone    hungry    the 
whole    day,    and,    I    judge,    well    into    the 
night." 
15 


226  The  Jester 

"I  gave  you  a  cordial  when  we  carried  you 
within,"  returned  Menippus  briefly.  "There 
was  food  and  drink  in  its  strength. "  He  went 
to  the  door  and  clapped  his  hands. 

Into  the  room  came  Castrano,  the  negro, 
bearing  on  a  tray  dishes  of  various  meats,  and 
decanters  of  wine.  He  placed  them  on  a  table 
and  withdrew.  Peregrine  got  off  the  couch. 
He  and  Menippus  ate  together.  He  found  the 
meal  exceeding  palatable.  On  its  conclusion 
Menippus  turned  towards  him. 

"I  will  now  show  you  the  room  where  you 
will  sleep,"  he  said.  He  lead  the  way  along 
a  passage  and  to  a  door.  Beyond  it  was  a 
winding  stair  in  a  turret.  Menippus  en- 
tered the  room  with  him;  a  small  place  it 
was,  furnished  with  necessities  and  naught 
beyond. 

"The  place  is  at  your  full  disposal,"  said 
Menippus.  "I  make  you  my  guest  in  con- 
fidence. There  is  but  one  stipulation  I  would 
put  to  you.  The  winding  stair  beyond  your 
chamber  leads  to  precincts  which  are  my 
concern  alone.     I  pray  you  leave  them  un- 


The  Choice  227 

mounted.  Since  you  are  a  man  it  is  safe  to 
make  this  request.  An'  you  were  a  woman 
it  would  send  you  up  them  in  haste  at  the 
first  opportune  moment." 

"Humph!"  said  Peregrine,  leaving  the 
cynicism  unanswered. 

'"And  now  I  bid  you  good-night,"  said 
Menippus. 

The  Sage  departed  Peregrine  sat  down  on 
his  bed.  By  the  light  of  a  candle  he  surveyed 
the  place.  The  walls  were  ochre-washed ;  the 
floor  bare  board,  none  too  clean.  Cobwebs 
hung  about  the  ceiling;  a  waiting  spider  or 
two  made  dark  blots  on  the  soft  grey  nets. 
The  bed  was  a  straw  mattress  on  wooden 
trestles,  and  covered  by  a  somewhat  mangey 
bearskin.  A  wooden  chair,  a  rough  oak 
chest,  and  a  table  made  up  the  remainder  of 
the  furniture.  Above  the  table  was  a  slit 
of  a  window  set  far  forward  in  a  deep 
embrasure. 

Peregrine  crossed  to  the  table,  mounted  it, 
and  peered  through  the  slit.  The  storm  had 
spent  itself.     The  world  lay  in   still  white- 


228  The  Jester 

ness  without.  Overhead  the  sky  was  star- 
sprinkled,  powdered  with  myriads  of  waking 
eyes.  Peregrine  felt  strange  comfort  in  their 
watchfulness. 


CHAPTER  XX 

VIBRATIONS 

HPIME  being  the  panacea  for  most  ills  as 
A  we  are  told,  so  we  may  well  regard 
custom  as  the  panacea  for  most  distastes. 
It  is  certain  it  proved  a  panacea  for  Pere- 
grine's. Active  dislike  being  presently  dulled 
to  indifference,  interest  anon  awakened. 

You  cannot  long  remain  in  the  company 
of  an  ardent  believer  without  receiving  some 
touch  of  his  beliefs,  be  they  in  God,  the  Devil, 
or  himself.  Menippus  believed  in  the  two 
last,  more  particularly  in  himself,  being  fully 
persuaded  that  while  the  Devil  lent  him  some 
little  aid  he  could  most  readily  have  dispensed 
with  his  services  altogether,  have  relied 
entirely  upon  his  own  power.  Doubtless  the 
Devil,  his  master,  being  most  politic,  endorsed 

this  theory,  the  while  he  laughed  in  his  sleeve. 

229 


230  The  Jester 

Peregrine,  exceeding  open  to  influences, 
sucked  up  the  mental  atmosphere  around  him 
as  a  sponge  sucks  up  water.  He  had  no 
notion  of  his  own  tendency.  An'  he  had,  he 
might  have  been  the  better  on  his  guard, 
though  here  a  man's  own  skill  is  of  little 
avail,  he  needs  truly  to  put  on  the  armour  of 
light,  as  the  Scriptures  have  it. 

Being  permeated,  then,  with  the  atmosphere, 
he  lost  his  distaste,  found  interest  awakening. 
This  latter  was  small  wonder:  an*  you  had 
conquered  dislike  there  is  little  doubt  that 
attraction  would  follow.  There  was  mystery 
enough  in  the  Sage's  doings  to  stir  curiosity, 
marvel  enough  to  carry  one  forward,  and  a  cer- 
tain matter-of-fact  exactitude,  withal,  which 
threw  any  hint  of  pure  charlatanism  aside, 
forced  reality  to  the  front,  even  while  it  brought 
dread  with  it. 

At  the  first  he  merely  instilled  certain  teach- 
ings.    Here  are  some  of  them. 

"Vibration, "  he  said,  elaborating  on  the 
outline  he  had  formerly  given  Peregrine,  "is 
the  first  law  to  study.     There  is  no  single 


Vibrations  231 

thing  in  the  universe  which  does  not  emit 
vibrations, — matter,  colour,  light,  and  sound. 
To  comprehend  the  whole  riddle  of  life  is  but 
to  attune  oneself  to  the  reception  of  these 
vibrations,  and  interpret  them  rightly.  Like 
rushes  to  like.  To  make  my  meaning  clearer, 
sound — the  crash  of  a  falling  tree  for  example 
— emits  vibrations  to  the  ether.  They  travel 
across  it  till  they  reach  some  instrument 
attuned  to  receive  them.  Such  is  the  normal 
human  ear  within  a  normal  distance  of  the 
falling  tree.  The  vibrations  lessen  in  force 
the  further  they  travel.  Beyond  a  certain 
distance  the  physical  ear  is  not  sufficiently 
sensitive  to  receive  them.  But  it  is  only 
on  their  reception  by  the  instrument  that 
the  sound  becomes  interpreted  in  terms 
of  fact.  To  an  ear  beyond  the  normal  dis- 
tance of  sensing  the  vibrations,  there  would 
be  no  sound,  because  of  the  lack  of  its 
sensitiveness  in  receiving  and  recording  them 
as  they  weaken.  This  would  not  prove 
their  non-existence  in  the  ether,  but  merely 
the   defect   in  the   instrument  which   might 


232  The  Jester 

have  received  them.  Have  you  followed 
me?" 

Peregrine  frowning  somewhat,  but  not  un- 
interested, made  known  that  he  had  done 
so. 

"Here,"  quoth  Menippus,  "I  have  dealt 
with  the  merely  physical  and  actual.  This 
same  question  of  vibration  extends  to  our 
reception  of  the  vibrations  of  form,  light, 
and  colour  by  the  eye;  of  the  vibrations  of 
scent  by  the  nostrils;  more  grossly  to  our 
reception  of  the  vibrations  of  form  and 
quality  by  the  touch.  Leaving  the  more 
material,  we  will  pursue  the  matter  further, 
dwell  for  a  moment  on  thought.  The  vi- 
brations of  thought,  though  quicker,  lighter, 
and  therefore  less  easy  of  reception  by  the 
heavy  and  material  vibrations  of  ordinary 
mortals,  are  yet  infinitely  more  powerful, 
infinitely  more  enduring  than  the  vibrations 
from  material  objects.  I  give  it  as  my 
experience  that  the  vibrations  of  a  thought, 
strongly  sent  forth,  can  endure  throughout  the 
centuries.     Hence   it   is   that   certain   sensi- 


Vibrations  233 

tized  minds  can  receive  the  vibrations  of 
thoughts  of  bygone  ages.  These  they  believe 
to  be  their  own,  having  made,  to  their  know- 
ledge, no  study  of  them  as  the  thoughts  of 
others. " 

Here  Peregrine,  who  had  followed  the 
argument  closely  enough,  demurred.  Having 
a  brain  of  his  own  he  now  used  it  to  some 
purpose. 

"But,"  he  argued  shrewdly,  "if,  as  you 
say,  all  new  thought  as  men  hold  it,  is  but  the 
vibration  of  thought  of  bygone  centuries, 
where  will  you  allow  the  beginning  of  thought? 
Presumably  at  one  time  it  -  must  have  been 
new." 

This  one  might  have  imagined  a  daunting 
question.  To  attempt  to  push  it  to  a  con- 
clusion in  accord  with  the  views  Menippus  had 
just  set  forth  would  mean  a  staggering  delv- 
ing into  infinite  aeons  of  time  before  which  the 
finite  brain  might  well  reel. 

Yet  Menippus  had  his  reply  ready. 

"All  thought  is  but  one  expression  of  the 
Universal  Mind,  which  has  known  no  begin- 


234  The  Jester 

ning,  and  will  know  no  ending,"  he  remarked 
gravely. 

Peregrine  was  silent.  He  found  himself 
neither  sufficient  theologian,  philosopher,  or 
scholar  to  gainsay  this  vast  statement.  In  a 
sense  he  saw  it  might  be  truth,  yet  found  it  in 
a  manner  vaguely  distorted  by  the  mirror  of 
speech  in  which  it  was  reflected  by  Menippus. 
He  ventured  on  another  query. 

"How  an*  the  thought  be  evil?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Rightly  speaking,"  returned  Menippus, 
"there  is  no  evil.  All  vibration  flows  in  har- 
mony from  the  Universal  Mind.  The  imper- 
fect or  wrongful  reception  of  those  vibrations 
by  the  material  vibrations  of  man,  sets  up 
discord.  This  men  term  evil,  and  believe 
therefore  that  evil  vibrations  have  flowed 
from  without  towards  them,  rather  than 
recognizing  that  the  fault  lies  in  themselves. 
Those  who  attune  themselves  rightly  can 
receive  the  whole  stored  up  thought  and 
knowledge  of  the  centuries.  This  is  wisdom, 
and  wisdom  is  power." 


Vibrations  235 

Here  was  the  mere  jargon  of  his  trade.  It 
is  true  there  were  some  who  believed  this 
doctrine  they  preached.  Excellent  sounding, 
and  none  too  easily  refuted,  it  had  deceived 
more  questioners  than  Peregrine.  Yet  it  is 
very  certain  that  Menippus,  though  he  had 
it  ready  enough  on  his  tongue,  held  it  not  in 
his  mind.  Frankly,  he  saw  two  powers  in 
the  universe,  or  better  speaking  three,  since 
I  have  shown  you  in  what  estimation  he  held 
his  own.  An'  the  matter  be  put  plainly,  he 
had  sought  to  make  the  other  two  subservient 
to  his.  This,  in  the  one  case,  meant  deliberate 
warfare,  finally  sheer  ignoring ;  in  the  other,  he 
saw  himself  victor  and  master,  recognized  not 
at  all  that  he  was  slave. 

Here  was  the  beginning  of  his  teaching. 
Later  he  led  him  further,  gave  him  in  outline 
some  inkling  of  the  founding  of  the  Order  of 
Lux.     For  what  it  is  worth  I  set  it  forth  here. 

The  Order,  so  said  Menippus,  was  of  great 
antiquity.  It  was  founded  by  three  Egyptian 
Seers,  psychics  of  much  power.  For  the  space 
of  nine  moons  they  had  sojourned  in  the  desert, 


236  The  Jester 

food  and  water  being  brought  to  them  by 
messengers.  They  spoke  to  none  save  each 
other.  Now  at  the  ninth  month,  at  the  full  of 
the  moon,  they  saw  the  Sign  of  the  Triangle  in 
the  Heavens,  and  the  three  stood  in  a  circle, 
making  the  Sign  of  the  Triangle  each  with 
his  own  hand  and  that  of  his  neighbour, 
thumb  to  thumb,  and  forefinger  to  forefinger. 
And  the  names  of  the  three  who  did  this  were 
Pharos,  Zadkiel,  and  Ramah.  And  above 
the  Triangle  they  saw  the  Lotus  Flower,  and 
above  the  Lotus  Flower  the  Sign  of  Triple 
Power;  while  the  whole  was  backgrounded  by 
the  Sign  of  the  Rising  Sun,  though  it  was  yet 
moonlight  when  they  looked  on  these  signs. 
And  they  heard,  so  says  the  legend,  a  Voice 
speaking  to  the  three,  which  bade  them  return 
to  the  Inner  Temple,  and  in  seven  weeks  the 
seven  rules  of  the  novitiate  should  be  made 
known  to  them,  for  each  week  a  rule.  And 
in  seven  months  should  the  seven  rules  of  the 
brotherhood  be  made  known  to  them,  for  each 
month  a  rule.  And  in  seven  years  should  the 
seven  rules  of  the  priesthood  be  made  known 


Vibrations  237 

to  them,  for  each  year  a  rule.  Thus  in  seven 
years,  seven  months,  and  seven  weeks  from  the 
first  seeing  of  the  Sign,  was  the  Order  of  Lux 
perfected.  And  the  three  cast  lots  as  to  who 
should  be  chiefest  among  them,  for  they  were 
all  three  of  a  royal  house.  The  lot  fell  upon 
Zadkiel.  Then  he  entered  into  the  silence  for 
seven  days,  and  the  seven  rules  of  the  High 
Priest  were  made  known  to  him,  for  each  day  a 
rule.  Now,  none  but  the  High  Priest  and  one 
other  know  these  seven  rules:  the  High  Priest 
tells  them  to  his  successor.  But  lest  there 
should  fall  mischance  of  the  death  of  both,  and 
for  fear  lest  the  rules  be  lost,  they  have  been 
written,  and  placed  in  a  casket  kept  in  the  in- 
nermost Sanctuary  of  the  Temple,  and  the  High 
Priest  alone  possesses  the  key  of  this  casket. 

Now  here  is  a  further  matter  which  is  some- 
what strange.  Though  the  Order  is  the  Order 
of  Lux,  and  its  chief  symbol  is  the  Rising  Sun, 
the  Temple  where  the  casket  lay  was  the 
Temple  of  the  Moon,  in  the  plains  of  furthest 
Egypt.  Here  the  Moon  Ritual  was  performed 
by  the  Ancients  each  month. 


238  The  Jester 

All  this  Menippus  told  Peregrine.  Further, 
he  told  him  that  one  night  at  the  full  of  the 
moon  he  should  see  the  ritual  as  it  was  per- 
formed by  those  ancient  priests,  and,  more- 
over, see  the  priests  themselves.  At  this  you 
may  well  believe  Peregrine  found  himself 
somewhat  incredulous;  but  it  is  certain  that 
later  his  incredulity  was  shaken. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MOON  RITUAL 

HPHIS  chapter  may  well  be  omitted  by  the 
incredulous.  For  my  part  I  know  not 
fully  whether  to  see  in  it  mere  hypnotic  in- 
fluence, or  some  power  more  evil.  Possibly 
both  had  dealing  in  the  matter.  As  it  oc- 
curred, I  will  give  it  you,  as  briefly  as  may  be, 
since  I  have  little  liking  for  these  doings. 

One  night,  the  moon  being  very  clear  and 
full,  Peregrine  was  roused  from  slumber  by  a 
rap  on  his  chamber  door.  Opening  it  he  saw 
Castrano  the  negro  without,  bearing  a  lantern 
in  his  hand. 

"My  master,  Menippus,  bids  you  follow 
me,  an'  you  would  see  that  which  will  chance 
in  the  Temple  this  night,"  he  said  shortly. 

Donning  his  clothes  anew,  and  wrapping 
his  cloak  around  him,  Peregrine  prepared  to 

239 


240  The  Jester 

follow  the  negro.  The  latter  led  the  way  in 
silence  to  the  hall,  and  thence  down  vaulted 
passages  which  struck  with  a  strange  chillness. 
From  the  manner  of  their  descent  Peregrine 
perceived  that  they  led  underground,  pene- 
trating deep  into  the  earth.  They  were  hewn 
out  of  rock  and  stone,  very  rough  and  jagged. 
Far  above  him  was  their  arched  roof  plastered 
in  some  manner. 

After  walking  five  minutes  or  so,  Castrano 
came  to  a  halt  opposite  a  great  door,  nail- 
studded.  This  he  opened,  and  in  the  dim  light 
Peregrine  saw  steps  descending.  Castrano 
led  the  way  down  them;  signed  to  Peregrine 
to  take  his  place  by  a  pillar,  indicated  a  stone 
seat,  whispered  an  injunction  to  remain  where 
he  found  himself,  and  so  left  him. 

Peregrine's  eyes  becoming  accustomed  to 
the  gloom,  he  looked  around  him.  It  was  a 
dark  vaulted  place,  very  lofty.  In  each  of 
the  four  corners,  barely  discernible  through  the 
darkness,  were  huge  marble  statues.  To  the 
left  was  an  arch  containing  seven  hanging 
lamps,  their  dim  flame  casting  a  faint  light 


Moon  Ritual  241 

upon  a  dark  object  below  it.  What  this 
object  was  Peregrine  knew  not.  It  appeared 
to  be  a  cabinet  of  black  wood. 

In  the  middle  of  the  Temple  was  a  stone 
pillar  some  three  and  a  half  feet  in  height,  the 
base  pentagnol,  the  capital  slightly  hollowed. 
Smoke  ascended  from  it  in  a  misty  blue 
column.  The  burning  substance  upon  it  gave 
forth  a  strange  heavy  scent.  Above  it  hung 
a  lamp  half  hidden  by  the  ascending  smoke. 
Around  the  pillar,  on  the  black  marble  floor, 
was  drawn  a  great  circle  in  white  chalk.  An 
outer  circle  surrounded  the  floor  of  the  whole 
Temple.  This  Peregrine  saw  but  faintly,  and 
only  as  he  peered  from  right  to  left,  marking 
all  that  reached  his  eye. 

His  gaze  coming  back  again  to  the  pillar, 
he  saw  Menippus  standing  near  it,  within  the 
inner  circle.  He  had  not  marked  him  pre- 
viously, and  believed  this  to  be  his  first  appear- 
ance. He  was  standing  motionless  and  rigid, 
robed  in  purple,  white,  and  scarlet;  Peregrine 
felt  his  eyes  drawn  to  him  by  some  impelling 

force. 

16 


242  The  Jester 

For  a  space  Menippus  remained  thus;  then 
Peregrine  saw  him  slowly  stretch  out  his  arms. 
Through  the  Temple  came  his  whispered  voice, 
gradually  gathering  in  force. 

"Adonay!    Adonay!    Adonay!" 

came  the  cry.     And  then  again  louder. 

"Adonay!    Adonay!    Adonay!" 

It  seemed  to  Peregrine  that  the  atmosphere 
around  him  trembled,  as  the  cry  came  floating 
through  the  Temple.  And  then  it  came  a 
third  time. 

"Adonay!    Adonay!    Adonay!" 

Now  it  penetrated  to  the  furthest  corners, 
echoed  hollowly  in  the  vaulted  roof.  He  was 
very  sure  that  the  air  shook. 

Still  the  cry  went  on,  and  with  it  further 
words.  They  were  uttered  in  Latin.  For 
your  better  understanding  of  the  ritual  I  give 
you  the  translation.  The  utterance  of  the 
words  came  in  curious  waves  of  sound,  rising, 
falling,  beating  through  space;  collecting,  so 


Moon  Ritual  243 

it  seemed,  power  and  force,  in  their  inexorable 
rhythm. 

1  'A  donay !    A  donay  I    A  donay ! 
Thou  that  dwellest  in  the  spaceless  void, 

Adonay !     A  donay !     Adonay  ! 
Thou  that  dwellest  in  the  illimitable  silence, 
Adonay!    Adonay!     Adonay! 
Bring  to  us  thine  aid." 

The  voice  fell  to  silence;  a  breath  of  wind 
swept  through  the  Temple. 

4  'Adonay !  A  donay !  A  donay ! 
Indomitable  Ruler  of  the  Firmaments, 

Adonay !     Adonay !     Adonay  ! 
Invisible  Wanderer  of  the  trackless  stars, 
Adonay!    Adonay!    Adonay! 
Lend  to  us  thy  power." 

Again  the  wind  swept  through  the  Temple, 
falling  once  more  to  a  deathly  stillness.  Small 
points  of  light  focussed,  broke,  and  scattered 
through  the  gloom. 

1  *  A  donay  I  A  donay !  A  donay ! 
Majestic  Creator  of  the  Vast  All, 

Adonay!  Adonay!  Adonay! 
Breath  of  the  Boundless  Universe, 

Adonay!  Adonay!  Adonay! 
Give  to  us  creation  and  the  breath  of  life." 


244  The  Jester 

And  then,  lastly,  the  supreme  utterance 
given  with  the  whole  collective  force  of  will: 

"Messias  Soter  Emanuel  Sabaoth  Adonay,  te  adore  ct 
invoco." 

Now  the  wind  swept  through  the  Temple  in 
a  volume,  swaying  the  lamps  till  their  chains 
jangled,  beating  down  the  smoke  from  the 
pillar  till  it  spread  in  clouds  around  it.  Again 
the  stillness  fell.  The  air  around  the  pillar 
cleared. 

Now  Peregrine  saw  four  figures  standing 
by  it,  where  previously  there  had  been  but 
one, — men  robed  in  purple,  white,  and  scarlet, 
as  Menippus  was  robed;  and  round  the  fore- 
head of  each  was  a  gold  fillet  fronted  by  the 
Rising  Sun.  From  whence  they  had  made 
their  appearance  he  knew  not,  but  it  is  very 
certain  that  the  awe  brought  to  his  heart  by 
the  sweeping  wind  remained  with  it  in  their 
presence.  The  still  air  felt  almost  ice  cold. 
Peregrine  shivered,  and  drew  his  cloak  closer 
around  him  the  while  he  gazed,  his  eyes 
rivetted  upon  the  pillar  and  the  four  figures. 


Moon  Ritual  245 

While  fully  aware  of  their  actual  presence,  he 
was  yet  imbued  with  a  sense  of  unreality, 
and  more  especially  a  sensation  of  unsafety. 
He  felt  somewhat  as  a  man  might  feel,  who  sees 
poisoned  arrows  falling  round  him,  and  knows 
himself  vulnerable  at  every  point.  An'  he  be 
not  wounded,  it  will  be  by  some  good  chance, 
rather  than  by  any  protection  he  can  afford 
himself. 

Then  he  saw  that  another  light  had  entered 
the  Temple, — pale  moonlight  falling  straight 
upon  the  circle  where  the  four  stood,  though 
from  whence  it  entered  he  knew  not.  Now 
he  heard  chanting  coming  from  the  four;  saw 
some  ceremony  was  in  progress.  This  was 
none  too  easy  for  the  uninitiated  to  follow. 

At  the  first  they  stood,  arms  wide-spread, 
rhythmic  syllables  falling  from  their  lips  in 
measured  tone,  with  curious  undulation  and 
dwelling  on  the  vowels.  It  seemed,  indeed, 
naught  but  vowels  that  they  uttered  with  the 
wailing  cry  as  of  some  Banshee.  Next,  the 
cry  dying  away,  they  bowed  themselves  in 
silence  to  the  earth,  touching  the  black  mar- 


246  The  Jester 

ble  floor  with  their  fillet-bound  foreheads. 
Then,  standing  again  upright,  the  figure  near- 
est him  went  up  to  the  pillar,  took  from  it 
with  a  pair  of  golden  tongs,  what  appeared 
to  be  glowing  charcoal.  This  he  placed  in  a 
gold  censer.  Standing,  then,  beside  the  pillar, 
Menippus,  who  faced  him,  came  towards  him, 
blew  upon  the  charcoal  till  it  glowed  to  deeper 
crimson.  Half  unconsciously,  through  the 
ritual,  Peregrine  found  his  brain  recording 
sentences.     Here  was  the  first. 

"And  the  Wind  of  the  North  shall  blow  upon 
the  Fire  of  the  South  that  it  increase  in  fervour, 
since  from  the  South  cometh  the  Purifying  Fire." 

Menippus  moved  back  to  his  place,  and  the 
figure  to  his  right  came  forward.  This  one 
scattered  drops  of  water  on  the  pillar,  which 
hissed  as  they  fell  among  the  burning  mass. 
Next  Menippus  came  down,  breathed  upon 
the  vessel  the  figure  held. 

"And  the  Wind  of  the  North  shall  blow  upon 
the  Waters  of  the  East,  that  they  quench  not  the 
Fires  of  the  South'1 

Here  the  figure  holding  the  vessel  of  water 


Moon  Ritual  247 

carried  it  to  him  with  the  censer.  Thrusting 
his  hand  into  the  vessel  he  scattered  drops 
upon  the  charcoal  in  the  censer.  Again 
there  was  a  sound  of  hissing;  but  the  smoke 
from  the  censer  continued  to  ascend.  He 
stepped  back,  and  Menippus  came  forward, 
signing  symbols  over  the  water,  finally  scatter- 
ing drops  around  the  pillar  and  upon  the 
other  three. 

"And  the  Wind  of  the  North  scatters  the 
Waters  of  the  East,  purifying  those  on  whom 
the  drops  shall  fall.11 

Now  he  again  returned  to  his  place,  and 
the  figure  to  his  left  came  forward.  From  a 
bag  of  purple  stuff  he  drew  forth  grain,  threw 
it  on  the  pillar  where  it  was  caught  by  the 
fire,  and  flame  sprung  up.  Once  more  Menip- 
pus came  forward.  Here  he  took  grain  from 
the  hands  of  the  figure  who  held  the  bag, 
carried  it  to  the  figure  bearing  the  censer, 
threw  grain  on  the  censer. 

"And  the  Wind  of  the  North  shall  carry  the 
offering  of  the  West,  that  it  be  purified  by  the  Fires 
of  the  South.11 


248  The  Jester 

All  four  now  returning  to  their  former 
places,  again  the  wailing  chant  rang  through 
the  Temple  with  ever  increasing  insistence. 
The  vibratory  strength  of  the  ascending  and 
descending  cry  brought  back  to  Peregrine's 
mind  somewhat  of  the  Sage's  teaching.  He 
perceived  in  it  new  meaning,  felt,  in  a  measure, 
the  vibrations  correspond  with  other  subtle 
vibrations  in  the  atmosphere  around  him. 
Together  they  formed  a  strange  harmony. 
Now  he  saw  Menippus  stand  with  arms  again 
outstretched,  saw  the  figures  South,  West,  and 
East,  scatter  burning  charcoal,  grain,  and 
water  upon  the  ground,  found  his  brain  again 
recording  words,  even  though  they  were  not 
heard  in  actual  sense  by  his  ears. 

11  Thus  purified  upon  the  altar,  further  puri- 
fied by  the  breath  of  the  Wind  from  the  North,  we 
return  these  gifts  to  the  Earth,  in  the  Name  of 
the  Great  Lord  Adonay,  Creator  of  the  Universe, 
Lord  of  the  World,  Ruler  of  all  Creation,  of 
the  Elements,  of  things  animate  and  inanimate. 
Adonay!     Adonayl    Adonay  V 

Now  they  moved  in  measured  tread  around 


Moon  Ritual  249 

the  pillar,  chanting  as  they  went.  Nine  times 
they  circled  it,  coming  at  length  to  a  stand 
in  their  former  position.  The  chanting  now 
held  a  tone  of  praise  rather  than  of  invocation. 
Words  after  this  fashion  came  to  his  mind: 

11  Light  of  the  Sleeping  World, 
Globe  suspended  in  Boundless  Space, 
Watcher  of  the  Silence, 
We  worship  Thee. 

"  In  the  ninth  month  of  Thy  Reign, 
In  the  time  of  Plenteousness, 
In  the  time  of  Harvest, 
We  worship  Thee. 

11  Looking  upon  the  Fruitful  Earth, 
Looking  upon  the  Bounteous  Plenitude, 
Looking  upon  the  Gifts  of  Nature, 
We  worship  Thee. 

"  Thy  light  is  falling  on  the  Ripened  Harvest, 
Thy  light  is  falling  on  the  Whitened  Cornfields, 
Thy  light  is  falling  on  the  Purple  Vineyards. 
We  worship  Thee. 

'*  For  the  white  Oil  of  Gladness, 
For  the  golden  Corn  of  Strength, 
For  the  red  Wine  of  Sweetness, 
We  worship  Thee. 


250  The  Jester 

"  0  Golden  Sphere , 
We  worship  Thee. 
0  Queen  of  Night, 
We  worship  Thee." 

He  saw  that  the  moonlight  was  shifting. 
It  no  longer  fell  full  upon  the  circle.  The 
chanting  came  with  a  tone  of  finality.  He 
received  now  no  sense  of  words,  knew  merely 
that  the  ritual  was  drawing  to  an  end. 

On  a  sudden  the  chant  ceased.  An  extra- 
ordinary silence  fell  upon  the  Temple.  At 
the  same  instant  he  saw  that  the  three  figures 
had  disappeared.  Menippus  alone  stood  rigid 
by  the  pillar.  Peregrine  found  himself  trem- 
bling. A  slight  sound  drew  his  eyes  to  the 
dark  object  before  the  archway.  A  face,  white 
and  frightened,  was  peering  from  it.  Pere- 
grine made  a  quick  step  forward.  On  the 
instant  his  arm  was  seized.  Turning  he  saw 
Castrano. 

"It  is  ended,"  whispered  the  negro,  and 
hurried  him  from  the  Temple. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

DEVIL   WORSHIP 

DEREGRINE  found  his  interest  fired  by 
*  these  matters  that  I  have  shown  you. 
Menippus  giving  solid  proof  of  his  power,  he 
doubted  not  that  eventually  at  his  will  he 
could  make  good  his  word,  bring  him  in  contact 
with  the  woman  he  sought;  though,  to  speak 
truth,  his  desire  for  the  meeting  had  somewhat 
lessened.  There  was  enough  here  to  absorb 
his  mind.  Subtle  flattery  led  him  to  belief  in 
his  own  power.  He  saw  himself  presently  a 
rival  of  his  teacher,  his  equal  if  not  his  master 
in  the  possession  of  knowledge. 

This  led  him  to  desire  quicker  advancement 
than  Menippus  was  willing  to  allow.  He 
knew  full  well  there  were  at  times  mystic 
ceremonies  in  progress  at  which  his  presence 
was  not  requested.     They  were  held  in  the 

251 


2*>2  The  Jester 

Temple.  This  he  learned  by  midnight  prowl- 
ing. Soft-footed  he  had  slipped  more  than 
once  from  his  chamber.  The  guidance  of  a 
murmuring  voice  had  led  him  to  the  Temple 
door.  Courage  was  not  strong  enough  to 
bring  him  to  an  entry ;  his  ear  pressed  against 
the  door  he  had  listened.  Here  and  there  he 
caught  a  Latin  word,  isolated  enough  to  bring 
him  no  inkling  of  the  context.  Curiosity  fell 
hot  upon  him.  He  had  made  scrupulous  avoid- 
ance of  the  turret  stair.  Menippus  having 
put  a  request  in  that  matter,  honour  as  a 
guest  bound  him  to  its  observance.  Here  he 
felt  no  such  qualm;  it  was  merely  that  he 
lacked  courage  to  turn  the  handle  of  the  door. 
An*  he  could  gain  knowledge  of  what  passed 
within,  without  Menippus  being  aware  of  his 
entry,  he  would  do  so. 

He  set  himself  to  think.  Observance  showed 
him,  that  on  such  nights  as  the  murmuring 
voice  proceeded  from  the  Temple,  Menippus 
first  made  visit  to  the  precincts  beyond  the  tur- 
ret stair,  moreover  marked  that  when  he  de- 
scended again  he  was  not  alone.     This  brought 


Devil  Worship  253 

him  to  a  conclusion.  In  the  future  he  sought 
not  his  couch  before  midnight:  ear  alert  he 
awaited  the  Sage's  ascent  of  the  stair. 

Six  nights  he  waited  to  no  purpose.  Judg- 
ing the  passing  of  time  by  the  march  of  the 
moon  across  the  sky,  he  relaxed  his  visit 
when  she  was  over,  or  near,  a  yew  tree  without. 
He  made  allowance  each  night  for  her  later 
rising.  Clear  skies  favoured  this  reckoning. 
The  seventh  night,  patience  being  by  now  well- 
nigh  exhausted,  and  sleep  lying  heavy  on  his 
eyelids,  he  heard  a  footfall  without,  marked  its 
ascent  of  the  turret  stair.  Here  was  his  oppor- 
tunity. He  slipped  softly  from  his  chamber, 
and  adown  the  corridor. 

He  had  time  enough  for  his  purpose.  Never 
less  than  twenty  minutes  or  so  had  elapsed 
betwixt  the  Sage's  ascent  and  descent  of  the 
stair.  He  passed  down  the  corridor,  made 
his  way  to  the  dimly  lighted  hall,  and  thence  to 
the  vaulted  passages  leading  to  the  Temple. 
The  silence  was  profound :  here  in  the  passages 
darkness  reigned.  He  groped  his  way  along 
them,  feeling  to  the  left  for  the  Temple  door, 


254  The  Jester 

as  he  had  felt  more  than  once  already.  Anon 
his  fingers  touched  it.  Excitement  beating 
high  in  his  heart,  he  found  the  handle,  turned 
it  softly.  The  door  did  not  yield  to  his  pres- 
sure. Bringing  his  shoulder  to  bear  against 
it,  he  found  it  locked.  Here,  at  the  moment 
he  believed  his  purpose  accomplished,  defeat 
faced  him.  An'  he  had  not  waited  seven 
nights  for  this  moment  the  disappointment 
had  been  less  hard  to  endure.  Now  he  felt  it 
very  bitterly. 

Casting  about  in  his  mind  what  next  course 
to  pursue,  he  saw  on  a  sudden  from  afar  whence 
he  had  come,  a  swaying  light.  A  dim  speck 
at  the  first,  it  grew  larger.  There  was  small 
doubt  but  that  it  came  from  a  lamp  carried 
by  one  approaching  the  place  where  he  was 
standing.  To  remain  where  he  was  were 
madness.  Turning,  he  groped  swiftly  down 
the  passage  away  from  the  light. 

Some  twenty  paces  or  so  further  he  found 
the  wall  come  to  an  end.  Feeling  cautiously 
he  found  the  passage  turn  leftwards.  An* 
the  bearer  of  the  light  stopped  at  the  Temple 


Devil  Worship  255 

door,  this  gave  him  cover.  He  paused  to 
listen,  ready  to  make  further  flight  should  the 
steps  come  near  him.  He  heard  them  echo- 
ing softly  in  the  vaulted  spaces;  anon  they 
came  to  a  halt.  He  fetched  a  deep  breath  of 
relief.     He  heard  the  turning  of  a  key. 

Waiting  to  be  sure  of  safety,  he  saw  on  a 
sudden  a  gleam  of  light  above  him,  perceived 
that  it  came  from  a  square  opening  in  the  wall. 
His  brain  worked  quickly.  Someone  within 
the  Temple  had  lighted  a  lamp  or  candles. 
Here  was  a  wall  of  the  Temple,  and  a  window 
giving  on  to  it.  An'  he  could  gain  the  window, 
chance  had  brought  him  a  safer  means  of 
viewing  the  ceremony  about  to  take  place  than 
had  he  ventured  through  the  door.  Also  he 
saw  no  means  whereby  he  could  now  enter 
undiscovered.  Had  he  guessed  at  the  truth 
of  the  happening,  he  would  have  known  that 
Castrano  had  forgotten  to  make  the  place 
ready;  had  come  swiftly  to  repair  the  omis- 
sion, and  return  to  his  couch  before  Menippus 
arrived  at  the  Temple.  Even  now  Castrano 
was   leaving   it,   and   Peregrine   would   have 


256  The  Jester 

found  entrance  easy;  though  for  exit  later  I 
am  none  so  sure. 

Peregrine  felt  the  wall  below  the  window. 
The  stones,  rough  and  jutting  forward  in 
places,  would  afford  him  slight  foothold.  He 
set  himself  to  climb.  Grazing  knee  and  hand 
somewhat,  and  with  danger  of  a  fall,  he  gained 
the  aperture  above  him.  It  was  a  square 
opening,  barred,  giving  on  to  the  Temple 
within;  sufficiently  deep,  too,  to  afford  him 
seating  of  some  sort.  He  saw  clearly  the  risk 
of  Menippus  glancing  towards  it,  perceiving 
his  crouching  figure.  This  risk  he  was  ready 
to  take.  There  is  naught  to  be  gained  with- 
out some  venture.  Getting  his  seat  secure, 
and  holding  to  the  bars,  he  looked  within. 
The  place  was  as  he  had  seen  it  on  the  night 
of  his  entry  there,  save  that,  instead  of  the 
stone  pillar  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  there 
was  now  an  altar  against  the  wall  to  his  right. 
Peregrine  guessed  some  new  ritual  about  to  be 
performed. 

No  one  was  in  sight.  Whoever  had  lighted 
the  candles  on  the  altar  had  now  withdrawn. 


Devil  Worship  257 

Peregrine  debated  for  a  moment,  had  idea  of 
making  descent,  of  trying  again  the  Temple 
door.  This  thought  he  put  aside  for  two  rea- 
sons. First,  he  ran  grave  risk  of  coming  upon 
Menippus;  second,  he  saw  himself  vastly 
safer  without  the  Temple  than  within  it. 
He  drew  his  cloak  close  around  him,  trust- 
ing to  its  darkness  to  give  appearance  of 
shadow  in  the  embrasure,  and  waited. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  door  opened : 
through  the  gloom  Peregrine  saw  two  figures 
enter,  one  small,  in  size  no  more  than  a  child. 
He  heard  the  lock  turned  behind  them.  An' 
he  had  possessed  courage  sufficient  to  try  the 
door  formerly,  it  would  have  availed  him 
little. 

The  figures  descended  the  steps,  came  for- 
ward towards  the  light.  Now  Peregrine  saw 
them  plainly,  a  small  boy  dressed  as  an 
acolyte,  and  swinging  a  golden  censer;  behind 
him  Menippus  vested  as  a  priest.  They  came 
before  the  altar.  Then  Menippus  began  to 
speak.     Familiar  words  struck  on  Peregrine's 

ear,  setting  his  heart  thumping.     He  heard 
17 


258  The  Jester 

the  boy's  voice  come  in  with  response, — a  life- 
less voice,  as  of  one  drugged. 

Heart  and  brain  sick,  he  crouched  rigid. 
Here  was  horror  of  which  he  had  never  dreamt. 
But  for  the  bars,  he  had  made  an  entry  at 
whatever  danger  to  life  and  limb,  stopped 
the  horrid  sacrilege.  He  could  not  look  at  it. 
Slithering  from  the  wall,  bruising  himself  in 
the  descent,  he  gained  the  passage,  made 
along  it,  and  thence  to  his  own  chamber. 
Here  he  found  his  breath  coming  in  deep 
sobs. 

"  I  had  not  known, "  he  said ;  and  sank  upon 
his  knees. 

Shuddering  he  knelt  there,  knowing  nothing 
of  the  passing  of  time.  Horror  had  beaten 
upon  his  soul:  his  body  was  numbed.  This 
was  where  his  quest  had  brought  him.  Dazed 
and  sick  he  found  his  strength  spent. 

Steps  passing  his  door  brought  him  to  him- 
self. Wit  in  a  measure  returned,  he  saw 
that  flight  must  be  his  with  no  delay.  Then 
another  thing  struck  him.  He  thought  of 
the  child  he  had   seen.     What  an1  he  had 


Devil  Worship  259 

been  trapped  to  this  pass?  Peregrine  saw 
not  his  own  flight  without  some  assurance 
on  this  score.  To  leave  the  child  were  sheer 
cowardice. 

He  waited;  presently  heard  Menippus  de- 
scend. A  moment  or  so  later  the  place  lay  in 
dead  silence.  Peregrine  made  for  the  door. 
No  thought  of  honour  held  him  now.  He  had 
his  foot  upon  the  turret  stair,  was  up  it  in  soft 
bounds.  Atop  he  came  upon  a  door,  a  staple 
pushed  across  it.  To  pull  it  back  was  but  an 
instant's  work;  the  next,  he  had  entered  the 
chamber. 

The  moonlight  fell  across  the  floor,  and 
upon  a  couch.  On  the  couch  lay  a  boy,  a 
small  thin  child.  He  started  up  on  the  sound 
of  the  opening  door,  turned  a  pitiful  face,  and 
great  dark  eyes  towards  it. 

"  Yes?"  he  queried,  alert,  ready  for  bidding. 
Then  on  a  sudden  he  shrank.  "Who  is  it?" 
he  asked  fearfully. 

"Hush!"  whispered  Peregrine. 

"Ah,  who  is  it?"  pleaded  the  child  fright- 
ened .     "I  am  blind. ' ' 


260  The  Jester 

The  pathetic  utterance  smote  straight  to 
Peregrine's  heart. 

"You  poor  little  misery!"  he  ejaculated  on 
a  note  of  tenderness.  "See  here,  listen  well. 
I  wish  you  no  ill,  naught  but  good.  Bide  you 
willingly  here?" 

The  boy  fell  to  trembling.  "Willingly? 
Ah,  no!" 

"Was  what  you  did  this  night  willing 
service  on  your  part?"  asked  Pere- 
grine, striving  to  keep  severity  from  his 
voice. 

"I  know  not  what  I  did,"  replied  the  boy. 
"I  act  as  he  bids  me;  I  say  words  which  he 
has  taught  me.  Knowing  not  their  meaning 
yet  I  dread  to  say  them. " 

"That,"  said  Peregrine  very  low,  "is  well. 
Will  you  trust  yourself  to  me?" 

"Sir,"  replied  the  child,  "I  know  not  who 
you  are.  But,  an'  your  heart  is  like  to  your 
voice,  I  trust  you  very  freely." 

Peregrine  smiled  grimly.  "We'll  leave  my 
heart  out  of  the  question,"  he  said.  "Truly 
it,  or  my  own  foolishness,  has  brought  me  to  a 


Devil  Worship  261 

pretty  pass.  Would  you  leave  this  place  an' 
you  could?" 

The  boy  started  from  the  couch. 

"You  will  take  me  from  it!  Ah,  sir,  sir!" 
Groping  towards  Peregrine  he  found  his  hand. 
Down  on  his  knees  he  fell  to  kissing  it  with 
fervour. 

Pergrine  hauled  him  to  his  feet. 

"Save  your  gratitude  till  the  matter  is 
accomplished,"  quoth  he.  "We  have  first  to 
make  our  way  from  the  place. " 

This  brought  the  child  to  his  senses.  "I 
know  not  how  that  may  be  done, "  he  faltered. 
"  Castrano  sleeps  across  the  hall  door.  I  have 
heard  him  snore  as  we  passed  the  hall  from 
the  Temple.     There  is  no  other  way  out. " 

"Then  we  must  make  a  way,"  said  Pere- 
grine very  cheerfully.  "And  first  you  must 
put  on  some  clothes. " 

He  found  doublet,  breeches,  and  hose  lying 
on  a  chair;  aided  the  boy  with  their  donning. 
The  child  clad  himself,  ear  alert,  fearful  of  his 
own  breathing.  Long  imprisonment  he  had 
borne  with  resignation:  hope  bringing  life  to 


262  The  Jester 

his  heart  quickened  it  also  to  fear  of  hope 
frustrated. 

The  boy  garbed,  the  two  slipped  softly  down 
the  turret  stair,  careful  of  each  footfall. 
Thence  they  gained  Peregrine's  chamber. 
Here  he  made  the  bolt  fast:  this  gave  him,  he 
felt,  breathing  space. 

"Since  no  exit  can  be  made  by  the  door, " 
he  remarked,  "we  must  e'en  make  it  by  the 
window.  'Tis  somewhat  narrow,  but  I  have 
had  my  head  through  it  more  than  once; 
and  where  a  man's  head  can  pass,  his  body 
can  certainly  follow.  You,  I  think,  can  go 
through  it  with  ease." 

Crossing  to  the  bed  he  pulled  a  rough 
woollen  blanket  from  below  the  bearskin. 
With  the  aid  of  a  knife  he  proceeded  to  tear  it 
into  strips.  These  he  knotted  firmly.  Mount- 
ing the  table,  he  threw  one  end  from  the  win- 
dow measuring  its  length. 

"'Tis  somewhat  short,"  he  said  peering 
downwards,  "and  'twill  mean  a  drop,  but 
with  luck  no  bones  need  be  broken.  First 
I  will  lower  you,  then  make  descent  myself." 


Devil  Worship  263 

He  hauled  up  the  improvised  rope.  Mak- 
ing one  end  fast  to  the  table,  he  knotted  the 
other  under  the  boy's  arms. 

"When  I  come  down  above  you,"  he  said, 
"I  must  needs  cut  the  rope  below  me,  and  let 
you  fall.  Get  to  your  feet  on  the  instant,  and 
go  some  paces  away,  that  I  fall  not  on  the  top 
of  you." 

He  helped  the  boy  to  the  table,  put  him 
through  the  window. 

"You  must  trust  me,"  said  Peregrine 
kindly. 

"Oh,  I  do!"  replied  the  boy  fervently. 

"Keep  off  the  wall  with  your  feet,  an* 
you  can,"  said  Peregrine,  and  began  to 
lower. 

The  rope  paid  out  to  its  fullest,  Peregrine 
got  to  the  window  himself.  On  the  ledge  he 
dragged  the  table  upwards,  wedged  it  across 
the  narrow  opening. 

"Pray  Heaven  the  rope  bears  us  both,"  he 
muttered.     "There  was  no  other  way. " 

Feet  braced  against  the  wall  he  began  the 
descent.     To  the  child  below  it  appeared  an 


264  The  Jester 

eternity  before  Peregrine's  foot  touched  his 
shoulder. 

"Ha!"  said  Peregrine.  "Now  prepare  to 
drop." 

Swinging  by  one  arm  he  felt  for  the  rope  by 
his  knees,  and  hacked.  A  moment's  work, 
and  it  gave.  The  boy  rolled  on  the  grass 
below,  none  the  worse  save  for  a  slight 
jarring. 

"All  well,"  he  whispered,  scrambling  away 
from  the  wall.  Now  Peregrine  dropped  lightly ; 
was  up  in  a  moment  but  little  shaken.  He 
looked  at  the  hanging  rope. 

"Leaving  traces  of  our  flight  behind  us,  we 
depart,"  he  said  grimly. 

Taking  the  boy  by  the  arm  he  made  swift 
way  across  the  grass,  out  of  the  moonlight, 
into  cover  of  an  adjoining  wood. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ABBOT   HILARY 

ABBOT    HILARY    came    riding    through 

Thorn  Wood   when   the  morning   was 

yet  young.     Matters  ecclesiastic  having  taken 

him  from  Dieuporte  three  days  previously,  he 

was    now   returning   to   it.     Going   leisurely 

enough,  conning  his  breviary  as  he  rode,  he 

found   time  to  sniff  the  good  morning  air, 

mark  the  chequered  lights  and  shadows  on 

the  moss  and  on  the  tree  trunks. 

A    portly    man    this    Abbot,    shrewd-eyed 

and  kindly.     Big-voiced,  you  heard  his  tones 

quaking  an'   they  thundered  forth  reproof: 

solemn  in  absolution,  you  heard  them  like  a 

deep-toned  bell  guiding  you  to  harbourage 

from   storm.     With   a   heart   as   big   as   his 

voice,  he  loved  mankind  hugely ;  found  excuse 

for  the  sinner  even  while  he  denounced  the 

265 


266  The  Jester 

sin.  His  brain,  alert  within  his  massive  head, 
was  quick  to  detect  lying  and  fraud.  This 
he  hated  very  deeply,  as  generous  men  hate 
such  dealings.  He  loved  the  open  air  and 
God's  sunshine,  his  mind  as  healthy  as  his 
robust  body. 

Riding  now  leisurely  enough,  muttering 
Latin  psalm  the  while  he  rode,  his  eye  rov- 
ing now  and  again  from  the  open  page  of 
his  breviary  to  the  dappled  sunlight  around 
him,  he  checked  his  horse  on  a  sudden,  bring- 
ing the  Latin  phrase  on  his  tongue  to  a  like 
halt. 

At  the  foot  of  a  tree  he  saw  a  white-faced 
boy  stretched  upon  the  ground.  His  attitude 
showed  exhaustion;  the  whiteness  of  his  face 
faintness  possibly  akin  to  death. 

Abbot  Hilary  was  off  his  horse  in  a  trice, 
despite  the  somewhat  unwieldiness  of  his  size. 
Hitching  the  bridle  to  a  crooked  branch  of  a 
tree  he  made  over  to  the  boy,  came  down 
on  his  knees  beside  him.  Slipping  his  fingers 
beneath  the  doublet  he  satisfied  himself  that 
life  was  not  extinct,  and  thereupon  fell  to 


Abbot  Hilary  267 

chafing  the  child's  hands.  A  crackling  in  the 
bushes  behind  him  stayed  this  business  for  a 
moment,  brought  his  head  round  to  see  who 
was  approaching. 

From  out  the  trees  came  a  tall  man  garbed 
in  motley,  bearing  a  broad  leaf  carefully  in  his 
hands.  On  seeing  the  figure  by  the  boy,  Pere- 
grine came  quickly  forward.  Heeding  the 
bearing  of  the  leaf  less  well  the  water  it  con- 
tained trickled  from  it  to  the  ground. 

"Let  the  child  be!"  cried  Peregrine  very 
sternly. 

The  Abbot  got  to  his  feet,  faced  him,  a  big 
man  astounded. 

"Truly,"  he  said  on  a  tone  conciliatory, 
"I  meant  the  boy  no  ill.  Seeing  him  lying 
there  fainting  and  alone,  I  but  sought  to  re- 
store him  to  consciousness." 

"I  crave  your  pardon,"  said  Peregrine 
quickly,  very  apologetic,  "I  thought  'twas 
another  knelt  beside  him:  one  with  whose 
company  we  may  very  well  dispense."  He 
looked  now  ruefully  at  his  leaf.  "And  like  a 
fool  I've  spilled  the  water,"  he  remarked. 


268  The  Jester 

"You  fetched  it  from  the  stream  yonder," 
said  the  Abbot,  knowing  Thorn  Wood  well, 
every  inch  on  it.  "Methinks  'twere  simpler 
matter  to  carry  the  child  to  the  stream  than 
bring  the  stream  to  the  child.  In  the  first  case 
we  can  be  more  lavish  with  our  restorative." 

Peregrine  laughed.  "  You  speak  very 
truly,"  quoth  he. 

The  Abbot  picked  up  the  fainting  boy 
from  the  ground,  lifting  him  as  though  he 
lifted  a  mere  featherweight,  and  straightway 
made  off  in  strides  among  the  trees,  Peregrine 
following  in  his  wake. 

Down  by  the  water, — a  narrow  silver 
stream  flowing  among  ferns  and  mosses, — they 
laved  the  boy's  temples  and  wrists,  got  drops 
between  his  lips.  Anon  he  came  to  himself, 
sat  up  somewhat  feebly. 

"I  will  come  on  the  instant,"  he  cried 
faintly,  his  mind  back  at  the  place  he  had  left. 

"Tut,  tut,"  spoke  Peregrine  soothingly, 
"never  trouble  yourself,  child.  There's  no 
more  coming  and  going  for  you  at  that  scoun- 
drel's bidding. " 


Abbot  Hilary  269 

"Ah,  I  forgot,"  cried  the  boy  fetching  a 
deep  breath  of  relief.  "Who  else  is  here?" 
he  asked  on  a  sudden. 

"Rightly  speaking,"  said  Peregrine  smil- 
ing at  the  Abbot,  "I  know  not  myself.  But 
assuredly  'tis  one  who  has  befriended  you 
very  well." 

The  Abbot  laughed,  big- voiced  and  hearty. 
"I  am  one  Hilary  at  your  service,  Abbot  of 
Dieuporte, "  said  he.  "Methinks  'twere  well 
you  both  accompanied  me  thither,  that  this 
child  may  there  gain  rest  from  evident  over- 
fatigue." 

This  proposal  fell  well  enough  on  Peregrine's 
ears  as  far  as  it  concerned  the  boy.  For  his 
own  part  he  had  yet  further  to  travel,  though 
he  was  willing  enough  to  accompany  them  to 
the  place,  wherever  it  might  chance  to  be. 
Keeping  his  own  plans  silent  for  the  moment, 
however,  he  acceded  readily  enough  to  the 
Abbot's  suggestion.  Picking  up  the  boy  again, 
the  Abbot  led  the  way  back  to  his  horse. 

"Do  you  mount,"  said  he  to  Peregrine, 
"and   take   the   lad   before   you.     Methinks 


270  The  Jester 

you,  too,  have  done  walking  enough  for  the 
present." 

Here  Peregrine  demurred  somewhat,  being 
loth  to  take  such  summary  possession  of  the 
other's  horse;  but  the  Abbot  pressed  his  point. 
Presently  mounted  they  moved  on  at  walking 
pace  among  the  trees.  Lulled  by  the  move- 
ment the  boy  fell  asleep,  lying  snug  in  Pere- 
grine's arms. 

"An*  it  be  not  impertinence, "  said  the 
Abbot,  "might  I  ask  whither  you  two  were 
faring  when  I  chanced  on  you?" 

"Tis  no  impertinence, "  laughed  Peregrine, 
"yet  it  is  a  question  to  which  I  can  find  no 
answer,  since  truly  I  knew  not  myself." 

"Hmm!"  mused  the  Abbot,  drawing  down 
his  eyebrows. 

Peregrine,  seeing  the  boy  sleeping,  now 
began  to  talk  more  openly. 

"This  child,"  said  he,  "has  been  in  the 
possession  of  a  very  evil  scoundrel.  It  is 
true  that  I  have  been  heartily  gulled  by  him 
myself.  Now  I  know  him  in  his  true  colours, 
which  are  certainly  very  black  and  filthy. 


Abbot  Hilary  271 

Two  nights  agone  we  made  our  escape  from 
him;  since,  we  have  wandered  the  woods, 
eating  blackberries  to  stay  our  hunger.  I 
can  fend  well  enough  for  myself.  For  the 
boy  it  is  another  matter.  Therefore  I  see 
very  clearly  that  Providence  sent  you  in  our 
path." 

" Truly,"  said  the  Abbot,  "I  see  His  guid- 
ance in  all  ways." 

11 1  do  not,"  returned  Peregrine  very  frankly. 
"But  then  it  is  not  probable  that  you  have 
followed  paths  like  to  those  I  have  traversed." 

The  Abbot  smiled,  humorous,  though  grave. 
"I  meant  I  saw  His  guidance  in  the  paths 
He  bids  us  follow.  An'  stiff  necked  we  follow 
those  of  our  own  choosing,  methinks  'tis  the 
Devil  leads  the  way. " 

Peregrine  rubbed  his  chin.  "There  I  am 
with  you  very  freely.  But  how  about  this 
child?  He  found  himself  in  paths  where  truly 
I  can  see  none  of  God's  guidance,  and  would 
hesitate  to  say  I  saw  the  Devil's  leading, 
since  assuredly  the  path  was  no  choice  of 
the  boy's." 


272  The  Jester 

Abbot  Hilary  mused,  looking  down  among 
the  trees.  "God  has  His  Own  methods," 
he  said  presently.  "At  times  He  leads  by 
strange  paths,  which,  were  they  of  our  own 
choosing,  would  soil  us  sadly;  but,  since  for 
some  hidden  purpose  of  His  Own  He  takes  us 
by  them,  He  leads  us  through  the  mire 
undented." 

Peregrine  nodded  quick  assent.  "Here  you 
have  given  clear  tongue  to  the  matter.  The 
child  that  lies  in  my  arms  has  been  present 
with  evil,  yet  he  is  not  evil.  Unwittingly 
he  has  taken  part  in  the  worst  sacrilege, 
yet  he  is  no  sacrilegist.  Thus  much  I  have 
learned  from  him.  How  he  came  to  such 
straights  he  knows  not.  He  has  no  memory 
for  aught  but  the  place  from  which  I  brought 
him.  An'  you  can  gain  full  speech  from  him 
as  he  gave  it  to  me,  and  cleanse  his  mind  from 
memory  of  past  foulness,  'twill  be  well  for  his 
soul." 

For  a  few  moments  the  Abbot  made  no 
answer.  Then  he  said  quietly.  "What  do 
you  propose  for  the  boy?" 


Abbot  Hilary  273 

"That  he  remain  with  you,"  returned 
Peregrine  on  the  instant.  "In  the  first  place, 
I  am  no  fit  company  for  him;  in  the  second 
place,  he  is  blind  and  needs  safe  harbour- 
age; in  the  third  place,  he  should  learn  for- 
getfulness  of  the  past,  which  you  can  teach 
him." 

"And  how  for  yourself?"  replied  the  Abbot 
smiling. 

Peregrine's  face  fell  to  rigid  lines. 

"For  myself,  I  have  a  quest  before  me;  per- 
chance a  goal  to  reach.  Twice  I  have  been 
deluded,  put  off  the  track.  It  may  be  death 
will  overtake  me  e'er  the  quest  be  fulfilled. 
That  must  be  as  will  be.  I  only  know  I  must 
pursue  it." 

The  Abbot  was  silent  a  while,  his  eyes  bent 
upon  the  ground.  Methinks,  by  the  move- 
ment of  his  lips,  he  uttered  some  inward 
prayer.     Anon  he  spoke  kindly. 

"You  spoke  of  a  goal  perchance  to  be 
reached.  How  know  you  that  same  goal  lies 
not  at  Dieuporte?     For  my  part  I  have  a  very 

fair  inkling  that  it  is  so. " 

18 


274  The  Jester 

Peregrine  shook  his  head.  "You  maybe 
right,  but  I  do  not  think  it  is.  Yet,  an*  you 
will  take  the  boy,  you  will  be  doing  a  goodly 
deed." 

"That  I  will  do  readily  enough,"  replied 
the  Abbot  gravely. 

Here  a  silence  fell.  And  so  they  pursued 
their  way  among  the  trees.  Great  beech  trees 
they  were ;  the  trunks  grey  and  purple,  flecked 
with  green  and  silver;  the  leaves  russet  and 
brown,  toned  by  the  touch  of  autumn. 
Long  shaded  glades  stretched  on  either  hand. 
Now  and  again  a  rabbit  scuttled  down  one  of 
them.  Small  stirrings  among  the  undergrowth 
bespoke  the  presence  of  dormice,  squirrels, 
and  other  woodland  creatures.  The  silence 
was  occasionally  broken  by  the  harsh  note 
of  a  pheasant. 

Anon  ascending  somewhat,  and  the  trees 
thinning,  they  had  glimpse  between  them  of 
a  valley  beyond  lying  in  autumn  sunlight. 
Here  there  were  more  woods,  blue  in  the  hazy 
distance.  Coming  from  among  the  trees, 
Peregrine  had  sight  of  grey  towers  in  the  val- 


Abbot  Hilary  275 

ley;  judged,  and  rightly,  it  was  Dieuporte 
lying  in  its  peaceful  shelter.  Now  they  began 
to  descend.  The  way  led  adown  a  lane  bor- 
dered on  either  hand  by  blackberry  bushes 
laden  with  dark  luscious  fruit.  At  the  bottom 
a  stream  crossed  it,  stepping  stones  affording 
traverse  for  foot  passengers.  Now  the  road 
widened,  lying  between  sedgy  meadows,  where 
cows  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  willows. 
After  a  mile  or  so  it  turned  leftwards,  and 
here  Dieuporte  lay  straight  before  them. 

The  sight  of  its  grey  towers  stirred  Pere- 
grine strangely.  For  a  moment  he  found 
himself  ready  to  believe  the  Abbot's  words,  to 
see  his  goal  within  the  quiet  place.  Now  I 
know  not  precisely  why  he  put  the  thought 
aside;  but,  methinks  that  being  twice  deluded 
by  the  words  of  men,  he  had  no  mind  to  find 
himself  deluded  a  third  time;  thought  rather 
to  trust  to  his  own  self  in  the  matter.  Yet, 
for  all  that,  the  sight  of  the  place  moved  him 
strangely,  as  I  have  said.  He  felt  like  a  man 
travelling  in  very  barbarous  lands  come  within 
sight  of  a  home.    And  further,  felt  that  within 


276  The  Jester 

that  home  dwelt  one  long  desired,  long  needed, 
yet  never  attained.  Some  mighty  power 
seemed  to  draw  him  to  it  even  while  his  spirit 
rebelled. 

Telling  himself  imagination  and  illusion 
were  present  with  him,  he  set  himself  to 
combat  it.  Had  not  bitterness  from  past 
disappointment  been  present  with  him,  per- 
chance he  might  have  read  some  omen  in  the 
still  hush  of  the  autumn  air,  have  found  in  it 
a  tenseness  as  of  expectant  waiting.  The 
red-dyed  leaves  hung  motionless  on  the  trees 
above  him  as  he  rode,  rusty,  stained  as  though 
with  blood.  The  combat  within  his  soul  was 
sharp  and  fierce.  His  own  will  gained  the 
mastery.  He  strangled  the  thought,  flung 
it  aside  as  rank  sentiment.  A  little  breeze 
passed  around  him,  stirring  the  leaves  on  the 
trees.  It  came  like  a  breath  of  regret.  Per- 
chance Abbot  Hilary  recognized  it  unwittingly, 
for  he  sighed. 

The  boy  moved  in  Peregrine's  arms, 
yawned,  and  presently  awakened. 

"Where  are  we?"  he  asked. 


Abbot  Hilary  277 

"  At  a  place  where  you  will  be  in  safety  and 
well  tended, "  returned  Peregrine. 

"You  will  be  with  me?"  asked  the  child 
very  anxious.  And  the  Abbot  waited  for  the 
answer. 

"Nay,"  responded  Peregrine.  "I  have 
further  to  travel.  But  you  need  have  no 
fear.  An'  I  were  not  assured  of  your  welfare 
I  would  not  leave  you.     You  will  bide  here." 

There  was  finality  in  the  words  which  the 
child  did  not  gainsay.  Too  long  had  com- 
mand been  known  to  him  for  him  to  be  unwit- 
ting of  its  tone.  Peregrine  felt  him  tremble 
in  his  arms,  but  no  word  came  from  his 
lips. 

The  Abbot  knocked  upon  the  Mercy  Door. 
It  opened,  showing  a  lay  brother  standing 
within. 

"Take  the  horse,"  said  the  Abbot  to  him 
after  a  word  of  greeting. 

The  brother  departed  with  it,  the  Abbot 
turned  to  Peregrine. 

"You  are  determined  to  continue  your 
journey?" 


278  The  Jester 

"I  am  determined,"  replied  Peregrine 
briefly. 

"Ah,  well/'  returned  the  Abbot  cheerfully, 
"God's  times  are  not  always  as  ours.  You 
will  at  least  wait  till  I  send  food  to  you  here. 
You  have  fasted  long  enough,  methinks. 
Blackberries  make  but  poor  sustenance.  You 
may  rest  assured  of  the  boy's  welfare.  You 
did  good  service  when  you  rescued  him. 
Farewell,  my  son,  and  God  speed  you  on 
your  quest."  He  paused  a  moment,  looked 
at  him  very  searchingly.  "An'  I  were  to 
prophesy,"  he  said  smiling,  "I  should  tell 
of  your  coming  to  your  goal  e'er  long.  Fare 
you  well."  He  passed  across  the  courtyard, 
his  hand  on  the  child's  shoulder. 

Anon,  with  a  well-filled  wallet,  Peregrine 
turned  his  back  on  Dieuporte,  made  his  way 
adown  the  valley. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AT    DIEUPORTE 

C'ER  we  follow  Peregrine  in  his  further 
wanderings,  it  were  well,  methinks,  to 
remain  a  brief  space  at  Dieuporte.  To  leave 
on  the  instant  the  child  committed  by  him  to 
Abbot  Hilary's  care,  were  to  my  mind  to 
leave  him  somewhat  summarily.  An'  you  are 
of  my  way  of  thinking,  have  found  interest 
in  the  boy,  you  would  know  something  of 
his  further  welfare.  Having  brought  him  to 
harbourage,  it  is  restful  to  dwell  a  short  time 
with  him. 

You  may  be  sure  the  child  found  the  Abbey 
restful.  In  the  first  place,  it  held  a  rare  atmo- 
sphere of  sanity  and  homeliness.  Herein  it 
differed  from  the  dwelling  he  had  left  as 
greatly  as  good  wheaten  bread  differs  from 

tainted  dishes.     In  the  second  place,  he  ex- 

279 


280  The  Jester 

perienced  safety  in  the  presence  of  the  big 
Abbot  and  his  colleagues.  This  he  felt 
without  fully  realizing  that  he  did  so.  His 
mind,  hitherto  tensioned  to  an  unwholesome 
strain  by  the  very  evil  will  of  Menippus,  now 
found  entire  relaxation.  He  slept,  ate,  and 
slept  again,  his  strength  vastly  recuperating 
thereby. 

He  spent  long  hours  in  the  sunny  garden, 
mainly  in  company  with  young  Brother 
Francis,  to  whose  charge  the  Abbot  had 
specially  allotted  him.  Here,  in  spite  of  his 
blindness,  he  became  aware  of  the  beauty 
around  him.  He  felt  the  soft  wind,  heard  its 
rustling  in  the  trees;  heard  also  the  low  notes 
of  the  wood  pigeons;  smelt  the  sweet  scent  of 
the  flowers.  In  the  quiet  orderliness  of  the 
place,  its  stateliness,  yet  its  simplicity  and 
its  homely  happiness,  his  rightful  heritage  of 
childhood,  long  denied  him,  came  to  birch. 
He  lost  his  furtive  look,  ceased  to  start  at 
sudden  sounds;  his  peaked  face  grew  to 
plumpness,  a  delicate  colour  tinged  his  cheeks. 
Anon,  he  was  heard  to  laugh.     This  sound 


At  Dieuporte  281 

pleased  Brother  Francis  vastly,  and  the  Abbot 
no  less. 

Having  good  care  for  his  body,  they  forgot 
not  his  soul.  There  was  no  proof  he  was  a 
Christian.  Having  been  in  the  charge  of 
Menippus  from  babyhood  the  Abbot  saw  the 
matter  more  than  doubtful.  Gentle  question- 
ing of  the  child  led  him  to  pretty  full  know- 
ledge of  the  manner  of  place  from  which 
Peregrine  had  rescued  him,  and  the  corrup- 
tion in  it.  Of  the  truths  of  Christianity  he 
was  entirely  ignorant.  Here  the  Abbot  took 
instruction  upon  himself.  This  required  care- 
ful handling,  since  to  bring  knowledge  of 
truth  home  to  him  was  at  the  same  time  to 
show  him  more  fully  the  evil  by  which  he 
had  been  surrounded.  What  Menippus  had 
taught  most  foully  must  now  be  taught  in  its 
full  beauty.  Briefly,  to  bring  him  to  the  sun- 
light were  at  the  same  time  to  make  him  aware 
of  the  darkness  of  the  pit  he  had  left. 

Figuratively  speaking  we  see  the  Abbot 
holding  him  in  strong  arms  while  he  looked 
backward    on   the   horror.     The   tears   that 


282  The  Jester 

came  at  the  knowledge  of  it  Abbot  Hilary 
dried;  the  shuddering  he  stilled.  He  told 
him  an  ancient  history.  This  was  the  story 
of  the  Three  Holy  Children  cast  into  a  fiery 
furnace.  He  told  him  they  had  walked  the 
flames  unscathed,  since  One  was  with  them; 
their  garments, — even  the  hair  upon  their 
heads, — escaping  the  smallest  scent  of  fire. 
From  it  he  drew  a  moral  bearing  on  the 
boy's  own  case.  The  child  listened  wondering, 
and  greatly  comforted.  The  horror  of  un- 
cleanness  fell  somewhat  from  him  at  the  tale. 
Also,  for  his  further  comfort,  the  Abbot  told 
him  of  Baptism,  and  Forgiveness  for  past 
wrong. 

The  boy  drank  in  his  teaching  eagerly. 
The  very  sensitiveness  of  his  mind,  which 
Menippus  had  used  for  his  own  ends,  made 
him  the  more  open  to  present  influence. 
Body  and  soul,  he  expanded,  like  a  bud  in  the 
sunlight;  it  needed  but  the  seal  of  pardon, 
like  the  kiss  of  the  sun  at  noontide,  to  bring 
his  soul  to  full  flower. 

He  knew  himself  by  no  name.     Menippus 


At  Dieuporte  283 

had  given  him  none.  "Boy"  was  sufficient 
for  his  needs.  It  had  been,  "Boy,  come 
hither;  Boy,  do  this."  Now  known  more 
tenderly  as  "Child"  it  were  yet  well  that  the 
presently  Christian  should  have  a  Christian 
name. 

Here  Brother  Francis  arraigned  the  saints 
before  him  for  his  selection,  gave  him  their 
history  in  brief.  This  was  pleasant  enough 
occupation.  To  sit  on  an  old  stone  seat  in 
the  garden,  to  hear  the  humming  of  the  bees 
among  the  flowers  mingling  with  the  musical 
voice  of  Brother  Francis,  was  a  joy  to  the  small 
selector.  He  lent  grave  ear  to  the  telling. 
Coming  to  St.  Michael  he  embraced  him 
readily.  Here  was  warrior  enough  to  delight 
his  heart.  He  saw  himself  well  protected  in 
the  future.  An'  the  Saint  himself  had  other 
matters  on  hand,  what  simpler  than  that  he 
should  order  a  deputy  to  take  charge?  This 
thought  he  made  naively  known,  thereby 
causing  Brother  Francis  to  smile.  The  choice 
found  as  great  favour  with  him  as  with  the 
child.     Very  scrupulous,  the  boy  avoided  the 


284  The  Jester 

smallest  claim  to  the  name  till  it  should  be 
his  by  right.     " Child' '  he  still  remained. 

It  was  on  the  Feast  of  St.  Luke,  a  glorious 
day  of  the  Saint's  own  summer,  that  Abbot 
Hilary  gave  it  to  him.  He  had  no  mind  to 
keep  him  waiting  over  long.  Conversant 
with  the  main  truths  of  Christianity,  their 
elaboration  could  come  later. 

Early  in  the  morning,  the  day  yet  barely 
awake,  Brother  Francis  roused  the  child,  clad 
him  in  the  white  robe  of  the  catechumen. 
To  the  east  the  sky  was  shot  with  pearly  light. 
Birds  twittered  from  the  bushes  in  the  gar- 
den below.  The  soft  air  came  through  the 
window. 

11  'Tis  your  true  birthday  morning, "  said 
Brother  Francis  smiling,  as  he  led  him  from 
the  room. 

The  child  was  very  quiet.  You  see  him 
humble,  trustful;  his  spirit  wrapped  in  im- 
plicit faith.  The  Unseen  World  with  which  he 
would  presently  be  in  communion  already  en- 
folded him  in  its  vastness.  He  felt  uncon- 
sciously that  to  which  he  could  assuredly  have 


At  Dieuporte  285 

given  no  word.  Where  formerly  his  soul  in 
bondage  to  another,  possessed  by  another's 
will,  had  striven  to  storm  unlawful  heights, 
and  thereby  in  a  measure, — through  no  actual 
fault  of  his  own, — had  become  co-operator 
with  satanic  cunning,  now  trustful,  with  full 
and  quiet  Act  of  Faith,  it  awaited  the  Divine 
Gift. 

A  soft  grey  light  was  in  the  chapel,  though 
night  shadows  lingered  yet  in  the  corners.  A 
faint  breath  of  incense  pervaded  the  place. 
Man  and  boy  bent  the  knee  in  honour  of  Christ 
in  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  then  knelt  near  the 
font. 

To  them  came  Abbot  Hilary.  Throughout 
the  ceremony  the  child  held  himself  very  sim- 
ply. When  the  holy  water  touched  his  fore- 
head, and  he  heard  the  words,  "In  nomine 
Patris,  et  Filii,  et  Spiritus  sancti"  he  fetched  a 
little  sigh.  Here  the  assurance  of  safe  harbour- 
age had  come  to  his  soul.  From  thence  he 
could  look  forward  nothing  doubting. 

Methinks  his  child's  heart  sang  a  Te  Deum 
as  presently  Brother  Francis  led  him  to  a  pew 


286  The  Jester 

near  the  altar  that  he  might  hear  the  Abbot's 
Mass.  Gravely  happy  he  knelt  there,  seeing 
the  future  in  a  glow  of  soft  light. 

With  supplication  and  praise  the  Mass  went 
forward.  At  the  Elevation  of  the  Sacred 
Host,  Michael  raised  his  head  a  moment. 
He  could  not  see  the  White  Disc  held  high 
in  the  Abbot's  hands.  But,  with  the  inner 
sight  of  faith,  he  saw  a  Figure  standing  before 
the  altar,  saw  the  gleaming  Robe,  the  Grave 
Eyes,  and  the  Wound  upon  the  Generous 
Hand  stretched  out  to  him.  .  .  . 

Truly,  as  Brother  Hilary  had  said,  it  was 
his  birthday. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AN    ORCHARD    EGOIST 

*\  X  7HEN  Peregrine  left  Dieuporte  he  struck 
*  ^  straight  through  the  valley  between 
the  wooded  slopes  of  the  hills.  The  autumn 
morning  was  very  fair,  as  we  have  seen. 
This,  added  to  his  recent  escape  from  black- 
ness, lent  zest  to  his  spirit.  For  the  first 
time  for  many  a  long  month  he  found  his 
heart  going  out  to  Nature.  It  winged  freely 
to  meet  her,  as  a  bird  escaped  from  a  cage. 
He  welcomed  the  breath  of  the  wind  upon  his 
forehead,  he  exulted  in  the  sunshine,  in  the 
good  clean  smell  of  the  earth  around  him. 
Extraordinarily  light-hearted,  he  pursued  his 
way,  giving  gay  greeting  to  peasants  as  he 
passed  them  at  cottage  doors.  The  intoxi- 
cation of  the  morning  caught  him;  he  was 

drunk  with  its  beauty  and  brightness.    Around 

287 


288  The  Jester 

him  lay  orchards  aglow  with  red  and  russet 
apples.  In  one,  a  girl  was  standing  on  a 
rough  ladder,  gathering  the  fruit  into  a  blue 
apron.     As  she  worked  she  sang: 

"When  Autumn  brings  her  goodly  store 
Of  fruit  and  corn  to  ev'ry  door, 

We  garner  all  with  care. 
Then  bird  and  beast  and  man  always, 
Throughout  the  colder,  bleaker  dayst 

The  harvesting  shall  share. 

"  When  Autumn  purple,  gold,  and  redt 
Brings  to  us  Winter's  daily  bread 

In  glowing  croft  and  field, 
We  bless  the  rain  that  watered  earth, 
The  sun  that  brought  the  crops  to  birth, 

A  gracious  store  to  yield. 

"When  Autumn  bids  the  brown  leaves  fall, 
When  earth  half  drowsing  hears  her  call 

To  sleep  through  Winter  days, 
We  gather  all  there  is  of  good, 
Of  earth's  most  bounteous  wholesome  food, 

Give  God  the  heartfelt  praise." 

She  sang  in  a  low  round  contralto,  a  voice 
as  ripe  as  her  beauty.  Peregrine,  plucking 
the  tabor  from  beneath  his  cloak,  joined  in 
with  the  last  verse.     She  turned  her  head  at 


An  Orchard  Egoist  289 

the  sound,  gave  him  a  gay  good-morning  at 
the  end  of  words  and  music. 

"So  you  are  a  musician, "  quoth  she. 

"Of  a  sort,"  smiled  Peregrine. 

"No  bad  sort,"  she  returned  with  a 
motherly  air  which  sat  well  on  her.  "Sing 
you  to  me." 

"What  should  I  sing?"  demanded  Pere- 
grine. 

"That  which  likes  you,"  returned  the  girl. 
"We  ever  perform  best  that  which  pleases  us 
most." 

Peregrine  laughed,  and  struck  a  couple  of 
chords  on  the  tabor. 

"I  see  freedom  pleasing  me  most  at  the 
moment,"  he  said.     And  set  himself  to  sing: 

"0/  all  good  gifts  is  freedom  more 
To  man  than  other  good  gifts  be, 
By  it  he  sets  most  gracious  store. 
To  roam  at  will  o'er  hill  and  lea 
Is  truly  more  to  him  than  gold. 
Or  silver  very  freely  given. 
Methinks  the  heart  grows  never  old 
That  ne'er  has  been  in  thraldom  driven. 
Who  lives  in  freedom  lives  at  ease. 
Knows  naught  of  ill  or  irksome  care. 
19 


290  The  Jester 

There's  little  else  a  man  may  please 
In  freedom's  stead;  no  goodly  share 
Of  oil  or  wine  or  golden  corn. 
Since  freedom  is  both  blythe  and  gayy 
And  like  to  earth's  most  fairest  mornt 
Of  freedom  will  I  sing  alway." 

His  voice  died  away.  The  girl  looked  down 
upon  him. 

"A  fair  song, "  she  said  appraisingly,  set- 
ting her  teeth  in  the  side  of  a  red  apple.  And 
then  she  laughed. 

"Why  d0  yOU  laugh?* '  asked  Peregrine. 

She  stretched  one  arm  wide,  embracing 
Nature,  as  it  were. 

11  Because  the  day  is  very  good,  and  because 
the  apple  is  sweet,  and  because — because  I 
am  alive."     She  bit  again  into  the  apple. 

Peregrine  eyed  her  approvingly.  "Three 
most  excellent  reasons.  You  find  happiness 
in  life?" 

11  Why  not?"  quoth  she  between  her 
munching.  "Is  it  not  well  to  be  alive?  Does 
not  the  sun  shine  for  me,  the  wind  blow  for 
me,  the  earth  bear  fruit  for  me,  the  birds 
sing  to  me?    Truly  I  find  happiness  in  life." 


An  Orchard  Egoist  291 

"You  envy  none?"  asked  Peregrine. 

She  laughed .  ' '  Whom  should  I  envy  ?  Old 
Mother  Esther  down  yonder,  who  has  three 
cows,  and  is  toothless,  and  has  a  wart  as  big 
as  a  hazel-nut  on  her  nose?  Grizel  Burnside, 
who  has  a  husband  who  beats  her  six  nights 
out  of  the  seven,  and  half  a  dozen  squalling 
brats  tugging  at  her  skirts?  Lambert  Groot, 
who  they  say  has  a  bag  of  gold  pieces  he 
counts  the  while  he  yells  with  rheumatic 
pains?  For  my  part,  I  say  let  Esther  keep 
her  cows  and  her  wart  and  her  lack  of  teeth; 
Grizel,  her  husband  and  her  brats;  Lambert, 
his  gold  and  his  rheumatism.  I  am  happier 
with  our  one  cow,  my  own  teeth,  my  freedom, 
and  my  health.  I'd  barter  no  jot  nor  tittle  of 
my  own  self  for  all  their  belongings  in  a  heap 
at  my  feet.  I  am  I,  and  glad  on  it."  An 
unconscious  egoist,  she  faced  him  laughing 
from  the  ladder. 

"Yet, "  suggested  Peregrine,  "there  are 
others  rich,  well-fed,  and  with  good  health, — 
plenty  of  them  in  the  world.  Do  you  not 
envy  them?" 


292  The  Jester 

"Not  I,"  laughed  the  girl.  "How  know  I 
that,  for  all  their  solid  riches,  they  love  the  gold 
of  the  buttercups  in  April?  that,  for  all  their 
good  feeding,  they  would  pluck  and  eat  black- 
berries from  the  hedges  along  with  a  juicy 
apple?  that,  for  all  their  health  they  could, 
race  the  dewy  meadows  bare-footed,  face  the 
August  sun  uncovered,  or  meet  a  January 
snow-storm  unshrinking.  Sooner  be  myself 
with  the  likings  I  know,  than  they  with 
tastes  more  than  perchance  foreign  to 
me. 

"My  child,"  said  Peregrine  gaily,  "I  ap- 
preciate your  confidence  in  yourself.  An'  a 
man  have  confidence  in  himself  'twill  lead 
him  far." 

She  looked  at  him  from  beneath  her  eye- 
lashes. ' '  Whither  hath  it  led  you  ? ' '  she  asked 
demurely. 

This  caused  Peregrine  a  slight  inward 
wince,  brought  his  light  statement  closer  to 
book.  In  a  sudden  flash  he  saw  his  words  not 
too  wise.  Truly  may  confidence  in  himself 
lead  a  man  far,  and  yet  no  nearer  his  goal. 


An  Orchard  Egoist  293 

Her  question,  drawn  at  a  venture,  shot  very- 
near  home.  Yet  he  had  no  mind  to  betray 
this  thought  to  the  laughing  girl. 

"Truly,"  he  said  airily  enough,  "at  the 
moment  it  hath  led  me  to  the  company  of  a 
very  fair  egoist.* ' 

Head  on  one  side  she  surveyed  him,  doubt- 
ful, questioning.  "I  know  not  that  word," 
she  said. 

"I  see  it  meaning  one  exceeding  conscious 
of  their  own  personality, "  remarked  Peregrine. 
"An*  you  be  not  conscious  of  yours,  I  stand 
rebuked." 

She  mused  a  moment.  "An"  you  mean 
that  I  know  well  that  I  am  Mellisande  the 
Fair,  as  men  call  me,  that  I  take  pleasure  in 
my  beauty  and  my  health,  then  you  need 
no  rebuke." 

"Indeed,"  said  Peregrine  smiling  at  her 
naivete,  "I  mean  that  very  precisely." 

"Then,"  quoth  she,  with  her  ever  ready 
laugh,  "the  word  suits  well  enough."  She 
dropped  to  silence  a  moment;  then  spoke. 
"Whither  fare  you  now?" 


294  The  Jester 

" I  fear  me,"  said  Peregrine,  "that  I  fare 
on  a  very  elusive  quest. " 

"What  manner  of  quest?" 

"The  quest  of  a  woman." 

"Oh!"  Mellisande  opened  dark  eyes,  braced 
herself  against  the  ladder.  "Tell  me  more," 
said  she  interested. 

"There  is  little  enough  to  tell,"  returned 
Peregrine,  "and  that  being  so,  the  quest  ap- 
pears the  more  mad." 

Briefly  he  gave  her  the  history  of  the  past 
months,  eliminating  matter  he  held  undesir- 
able to  repeat.     She  listened,  gravely  intent. 

"I  have  heard  tell  of  the  woman,"  she 
said  as  he  came  to  an  end  of  the  story,  "veiled, 
and  with  quiet  eyes." 

"You  have  heard  tell  of  her!"  cried  Pene- 
grine. 

She  nodded.  "Listen.  'Tis  my  little 
brother  who  has  spoken  of  her.  Truly  I 
have  thought  his  words  but  imagining,  since  he 
is  a  dreamer  and  over-apt  to  fancies,  at  least 
so  I  have  held.  But  more  than  once  he  has 
spoken  of  this  woman,  and  in  much  the  same 


An  Orchard  Egoist  295 

words  that  you  have  given  me.  Once  I 
thought  'twas  the  Blessed  Virgin  he  had 
believed  to  see,  but  he  assured  me  to  the  con- 
trary. This  woman,  he  avows,  is  purple- 
robed,  her  face  white  as  jasmine  flowers,  and 
half  hidden  in  a  veil ;  her  eyes,  when  she  looks 
at  you,  are  like  moonlit  lakes  among  mount- 
ains,— lakes  unruffled  by  the  least  breath  of 
wind.  This  is  what  my  brother  Aelred  has 
told  me." 

"Then,"  said  Peregrine  very  firmly,  "I 
will  speak  with  Aelred. " 

Mellisande  pointed  to  the  right. 

"You  will  find  him  yonder,  most  like,"  she 
said.  "Follow  the  road  through  the  village, 
bear  upwards  along  a  rocky  path,  and  you 
will  hear  the  sound  of  falling  water.  Make 
for  the  sound.  A  stream  comes  out  of  the 
rock  near  here,  emptying  itself  into  a  cup- 
shaped  hollow.  'Tis  there  where  Aelred 
plays  most  often,  or  dreams  rather,  for  he 
is  not  over-given  to  play,  being  somewhat 
crippled.  Question  him  gently,  and  per- 
chance he  will  tell  you  more.     But  he  cares 


296  The  Jester 

not  to  speak  too  freely  of  such  matters,  since 
men  are  apt  to  mock  at  him. " 

"I  thank  you  well,"  said  Peregrine,  and 
turned  to  go. 

"Not  too  fast/'  cried  M611isande,  "first 
you  must  have  reward  for  your  song.  Hold 
out  your  cloak. " 

Peregrine,  laughing,  spread  out  his  c1oak 
as  bidden.  She  tossed  apples  to  him  till  he 
vowed  he  could  carry  no  more.  Bestowing 
them  about  his  person,  he  gave  merry  thanks. 

"Farewell,  orchard  egoist,"  he  said,  "per- 
chance we  meet  again." 

"Who  knows!"  she  nodded.  "Fare  you 
well."  She  saw  him  depart  light-footed. 
Once  again  she  turned  singing  to  her  apples. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

aelred's  belief 

HTHE  sound  of  falling  water  caught  on 
Peregrine's  ear  as  he  came  to  the  foot 
of  the  small  ravine.  It  was  but  a  faint  musi- 
cal tinkle,  since  rain  had  been  scarce  during 
the  past  weeks.  His  way  led  him  up  a 
narrow  pathway,  somewhat  rough,  and  steep- 
rocked  on  either  side.  The  rocks  were  cov- 
ered with  stonecrop,  a  mass  of  white  and 
yellow  flowers  earlier  in  the  year;  now  merely 
small  succulent  leaves  remained.  Here  and 
there  grew  patches  of  heather,  its  flowers 
likewise  gone;  only  an  occasional  purple 
spray  lingered  among  the  withered  brownness. 
The  sun  beat  warmly  on  the  path,  falling  very 
straight  between  the  rocks. 

Before  him  the  way  turned  right  and  left, 
297 


298  The  Jester 

divided  by  a  grass-covered  slope.  The  sound 
of  the  falling  water  brought  him  to  the  left. 
Here  the  rocks  held  stunted  trees,  ash  and 
elder,  drawing  small  sustenance  from  the 
sparse  earth.  Further  on  the  trees  thickened, 
vegetation  became  more  luxurious:  now  the 
sound  of  the  water  came  very  clearly  to  his 
ear.  A  moment  later  a  slight  bend  in  the 
path  brought  him  upon  it,  a  thin  silver  stream 
coming  from  the  rocks  above,  and  falling  into 
a  cup-shaped  hollow. 

By  the  hollow  a  boy  was  sitting.  Peregrine 
judged  him  ten  years  old  or  thereabouts. 
His  brown  hair  was  cut  straight  across  his  fore- 
head, and  at  the  nape  of  his  neck.  He  sat 
very  still,  his  hands  clasped  round  his  knees. 
From  afar  you  might  have  fancied  him  sleep- 
ing, but  for  a  certain  tenseness  in  his  attitude. 
Coming  nearer,  you  would  have  seen  his  eyes 
open,  staring  straight  before  him. 

The  sound  of  Peregrine's  step  on  the  rocky 
earth  brought  him  back  to  matters  present. 
He  raised  his  head  quickly,  the  movement 
like  that  of  a  startled  fawn. 


Aelred's  Belief  299 

Peregrine,  coming  near  the  boy,  paused. 
"May  I  rest  awhile?"  he  asked. 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  the  boy  shyly,  "this 
is  no  private  place." 

"Yet  courtesy  prompts  the  query,"  smiled 
Peregrine,  "since  I  see  you  first  established 
here." 

For  answer  Aelred  moved  a  wooden  crutch. 
Peregrine  sat  down  by  him. 

"A  very  peaceful  place,"  said  he,  scarce 
knowing  how  best  to  broach  the  matter  he  had 
in  mind. 

"I  like  the  sound  of  the  falling  water," 
said  the  boy. 

"Tis  musical  enough,"  said  Peregrine 
somewhat  absently. 

Aelred  eyed  him  frankly.  Then  with  a 
child's  directness  put  a  frank  question. 

"Are  you  very  weary?" 

Peregrine  turned.  "To  speak  truth,  not 
weary  at  all  at  the  moment,  though  methinks 
I  have  known  weariness  more  often  than 
not." 

"Yet  you  are  strong,"  said  Aelred  wist- 


300  The  Jester 

fully,  glancing  from  the  man  to  his  own 
twisted  foot. 

"Weariness  of  body  were  better  to  suffer 
than  mind  weariness, "  said  Peregrine  a  trifle 
bitterly. 

Aelred  was  silent.  Here  was  matter  be- 
yond his  ken. 

"Yet  you  do  not  see  me  weary  now," 
said  Peregrine  quickly,  noting  his  sorry  look. 

There  fell  a  silence.  He  saw  not  how  to  lure 
the  boy  to  speech,  fearful  lest  question  should 
shut  his  lips  beyond  chance  of  opening  them. 
He  felt  in  the  chikTs  mind  something  alert, 
watchful,  ready  to  hide  on  the  smallest  hint 
of  intrusion.  He  saw  not  in  what  fashion 
he  might  best  make  gentle  approach.  Thus 
it  was  he  sat  silent,  listening  to  the  falling 
water. 

Had  he  known,  he  could  have  used  no  better 
method  of  allurement  than  this  very  silence. 
The  boy  saw  himself  in  a  manner  a  host.  He 
had  averred,  and  truly,  this  was  no  private 
ground,  nevertheless  it  was  ground  but  rarely 
visited   save  by  him.     This  gave  him  in  a 


Aelred's  Belief  301 

sense  possession  of  it.  It  had  become  his  by 
some  inscrutable  law  of  communion  with 
its  spirit.  An*  you  are  alive  to  the  great 
elemental  forces  of  Nature,  you  will  find  a 
waiting  spirit  in  all  isolated  places,  ready  to 
welcome  or  repel  according  to  the  kindredship 
of  your  soul.  Welcomed,  you  are  made  lord 
of  the  domain  by  tacit  consent.  You  return 
again  and  yet  again  till  it  becomes  more  fully 
yours  by  sovereign  right.  The  presence  of 
an  intruder  is  made  known  to  you  rather  by 
the  resentfulness  of  the  spirit  of  the  place 
than  by  any  volition  of  your  own. 

Aelred  found  the  man  beside  him  no  in- 
truder: he  knew  him  for  a  welcomed  guest. 
Therefore  it  behooved  him  to  show  hospi- 
tality. To  this  end,  he  broke  presently  into 
shy  yet  courteous  speech. 

"A  thrush  nested  in  yon  thorn  bush  in  the 
spring.  I  saw  her  teach  three  little  ones  to 
fly." 

Here  came  opportunity.  They  were  off  in 
a  moment  among  bird  and  beast,  capping 
each   other  with   greater    marvel  as  to  the 


302  The  Jester 

ways  of  the  woodland  creatures.  Aelred 
found  his  master  in  these  matters.  Ere  long 
he  became  sole  listener,  drinking  in  the  man's 
words  with  eager  ears.  Peregrine  told  him  of 
his  own  boyish  rescuing  of  the  hare  from  the 
huntsmen  and  harriers.  Further,  of  finding, 
once  on  a  time,  a  sorely  wounded  fox  cub,  of 
the  vixen's  moan  over  it ;  told  of  carrying  it 
back  to  her  lair  the  while  she  trotted  beside 
him,  dog-like  in  her  confidence;  told  of  her 
jealous  guard  of  it  through  the  days  of  its 
mending ;  and,  at  the  last  how  he  had  returned 
to  find  her  and  her  young  playing  before  the 
nest,  the  once  injured  cub  among  them; 
told  how  she  had  picked  it  from  among  the 
rest  and  laid  it  at  his  feet  in  gratitude,  yelp- 
ing softly  with  delight  the  while. 

Here  was  comradeship  of  taste  that  brought 
them  to  quick  understanding.  There  is  none 
that  draws  together  so  quickly  or  so  surely. 
Anon  Peregrine  ventured  on  the  matter  most 
present  to  his  mind ;  spoke  briefly  of  his  seek- 
ing. He  put  no  question;  making  his  own  de- 
sire known,  he  waited.     Aelred,  having  seen  a 


Aelred's  Belief  303 

comrade  in  the  man,  was  quick  to  give  a 
comrade's  aid.  His  face  a-quiver  he  spoke 
eagerly. 

"Ah,  but  I  have  seen  her.  I  know  not 
who  she  is  nor  whence  she  comes.  Most 
often  she  kneels  by  me  in  the  church  down 
yonder  when  I  am  alone.  'Twas  there  I 
first  saw  her.  Once  she  met  me  on  the  hill- 
side. I  mind  the  day  well.  I  was  angered 
since  one  had  spoken  ill  words  to  me.  Up  on 
the  hill  I  saw  the  sun  setting,  and  I — I  knew  it 
should  not  go  down  on  anger.  So  presently  I 
was  sorry.  Then  I  saw  her  coming  towards 
me.  It  seemed  that  she  came  right  from  the 
sunset,  though  'twas  not  that  truly,  but 
merely  that  the  light  was  behind  her.  She 
looked  at  me,  and  called  me,  "Little  Aelred." 
She  touched  my  forehead,  and  so  left  me.  I 
know  not  whither  she  went,  as  I  know  not 
whence  she  comes.  But  I  mind  that  day 
very  well." 

You  see  him  alight,  eager,  exceeding  desir- 
ous of  making  his  knowledge  of  the  woman 
known. 


304  The  Jester 

"Then  is  she  no  fancy  of  the  brain,"  said 
Peregrine  softly. 

"Indeed  no,"  laughed  the  boy  joyously. 
"Perchance  even  now  she  is  down  yonder. 
Truly  I  have  seen  her  there  full  oft." 

Here  was  very  definite  assurance.  The 
whole  simplicity  of  it  held  him  silent.  For 
months  he  had  wandered  heart  sick  in  pur- 
suit. Now  he  found  himself  almost  in  her 
presence,  and  at  the  moment  when,  for  all  his 
vaunted  words  to  Abbot  Hilary,  he  had  found 
himself  nigh  on  abandoning  the  quest,  turning 
for  satisfaction  to  Nature  and  her  varying 
moods.  He  saw  himself  a  coward  for  his 
doubt:  knew  more  certainly  his  great  desire 
to  come  to  her  presence.  I  do  not  think  he 
dwelt  vastly  now,  no  more  than  formerly,  on 
what  the  meeting  should  bring  him.  It  was 
enough  to  know  she  was  no  dream.  An*  he 
could  come  to  full  assurance  on  this  score, 
'twere  joy  enough.  The  boy  brought  to 
words  what  trembled  in  his  mind. 

"An*  we  went  now  to  the  church,  we  might 
find  her  there." 


Aelred's  Belief  305 

Peregrine  got  to  his  feet ;  lifted  the  boy  from 
the  ground,  adjusted  the  crutch  beneath  his 
arm. 

"Come, "  he  said  briefly. 

They  set  out  adown  the  rocky  path.  Pere- 
grine found  it  none  too  easy  work  to  curb  his 
steps  to  the  boy's  halting  pace.  His  heart 
made  haste  before  him,  went  eager  to  the 
desired  meeting.  He  doubted  not  for  one  in- 
stant he  should  find  her  there.  Long  sought, 
long  desired,  he  would  see  her  face  to  face. 

The  village  appeared  deserted;  the  inhabi- 
tants within  doors  were  partaking  of  the 
noonday  meal.  The  sun  lay  golden  on  the 
roadway.  Anon,  before  him,  he  saw  the  grey 
church,  the  porch  shadowed  by  a  great  yew 
tree.  Aelred's  crutch  tapped  softly  up  the 
flagged  path.  Together  they  entered  the 
door. 

The  place  was  cool  and  dusky,  smelling 
faintly  of  incense  and  candle  fumes.  A  great 
Crucifix  hung  above  the  Rood  Loft,  dimly 
discernible  in  the  shadows  overhead.  The 
Pyx  Light  shone  soft  and  red. 


306  The  Jester 

They  looked  round :  saw  the  building  empty. 
Disappointment  fell  cold  to  Peregrine's  heart. 
Aelred  lifted  a  reassuring  face. 

"Anon  she  may  come,"  he  whispered. 
"Shall  we  wait  and  pray." 

"Pray  you  an'  you  will,"  said  Peregrine 
somewhat  coldly,  "I  will  bide  here." 

He  stood  within  the  doorway,  arms  folded. 
He  had  no  mind  to  bend  the  knee.  Ancient 
memories  were  hotly  astir  within  him.  Age- 
old  custom,  or  something  stronger,  called 
loudly  to  him:  pride  mocked  at  the 
call. 

Aelred  limped  up  the  aisle;  made  for  a  bench 
on  his  right.  Here  he  came  to  his  knees,  while 
Peregrine  watched  motionless.  An*  she  passed 
not  him  to  enter,  she  must  needs  come  by 
a  small  door  by  the  Lady  Chapel.  His  eyes 
for  the  most  part  on  this,  though  now  and 
again  turning  to  the  kneeling  boy,  he  waited. 
The  minutes  passed  leaden-footed.  At  length 
Aelred  got  up  from  his  knees. 

Very  sick  at  heart,  Peregrine  came  through 
the  porch,  and  into  the  sunlight.     There  he 


Aelred's  Belief  307 

awaited  the  boy.  Aelred  came  towards  him, 
his  face  radiant. 

"You  saw  her!"  he  cried. 

Peregrine  stared.  "I  saw  her!"  he  echoed 
dumbfounded. 

"She  came  even  as  I  knelt,"  he  said  joy- 
ous. Then  stopped,  struck  mute  by  the  sight 
of  the  man's  face. 

"Ah,  what  is  it?  "  he  asked  on  a  note  almost 
piteous. 

"Bah!"  laughed  Peregrine  mockingly.  "I 
might  have  known  it  but  a  figment  of  the 
brain.     Yet  that  a  child  should  be  deceived!" 

"What  mean  you?"  asked  Aelred  trem- 
bling. 

"There  was  no  one  near  you."  He  shot 
forth  the  words  bitterly.  Then  turning  strode 
away. 

White-faced  the  boy  looked  after  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  RECLUSE 

A  N'  you  knew  Greatoak  Forest, — a  vast 
place  and  well  named  by  reason  of  its 
trees, — you  might  perchance  have  heard  ru- 
mour of  its  recluse.  Men  spoke  of  him  as  a 
tall  man,  clad  in  a  white  woollen  garment, 
feeding  on  roots  and  berries,  and  in  league  with 
mysterious  powers. 

This  was  but  half  truth,  as  such  rumours 
are  like  to  be.  That  he  was  a  tall  man  may 
be  safely  accorded;  that  he  wore  a  white 
woollen  garment  fashioned  after  the  manner 
of  a  sleeved  cloak,  and  girt  about  the  waist 
with  a  leathern  belt,  may  be  also  accorded. 
Given  these  two  matters,  further  rumour  was 
not  over  accurate.  Forest  roots  and  berries 
he  would  have  found  poor  sustenance  for  his 

muscular  body.      He  gained  better  nourish- 

308 


The  Recluse  309 

ment  from  the  wheat  and  vegetables  he  grew 
in  the  ground  around  his  cabin;  from  snared 
rabbits,  dressed  and  seasoned  with  herbs 
and  onions.  At  leaguing  with  mysterious 
powers  he  would  have  laughed  frankly  and 
very  truly.  Nature  was  the  goddess  he  wor- 
shipped, and  he  saw  in  her  an  all-sufficient 
mistress. 

In  body  he  was  tall  and  muscular,  as  you 
have  seen.  In  face  he  was  dark  and  sunburned, 
having  something  of  a  foreign  mien.  Black 
hair  covered  his  head;  his  eyes,  grey  and  far- 
seeing,  looked  straight  upon  the  world  unflinch- 
ing. Clear  eyes  they  were,  having  the  look 
of  seeing  more  than  was  physically  apparent. 
They  would  gaze  at  you  very  frankly  after  the 
manner  of  a  man  who  has  nothing  to  hide,  and 
yet  you  found  yourself  no  nearer  knowledge  of 
the  mind  of  the  gazer  in  meeting  them.  No 
doubt  this  last  lent  a  hand  in  giving  colour  to 
the  rumour  of  mystery,  though  truly  that  he 
was  seldom  seen  beyond  the  forest  was  mys- 
tery enough  for  peasant  folk.  Your  coarser 
man  dwells  willingly  in  herds,  save  when  he  is 


310  The  Jester 

injured.  Then  it  is  his  instinct  to  creep  away 
from  sight  after  the  manner  of  some  wounded 
beast. 

Oswald  was  his  name:  and  Oswald  the 
Recluse  men  called  him.  He  was  seldom  seen, 
as  I  have  told  you.  Now  and  again  men 
had  glimpses  of  him,  this  at  dawn  or  sunset, 
walking  some  distant  hillside.  Boys  pene- 
trating the  depths  of  the  forest  in  search  of 
birds'  nests  brought  back  word  of  him  sitting 
by  his  cabin  door,  very  still  and  silent.  Yet 
none  ventured  within  distance  of  discovery 
by  him;  or  fancied  they  did  not.  Had  they 
guessed  at  the  alert  mind  within  the  still  body, 
they  had  known  their  presence  less  hidden 
than  they  fondly  imagined. 

It  disturbed  him  no  more  than  the  scamper- 
ing of  a  squirrel  up  a  tree,  or  the  rustle  of  a 
dormouse  among  dried  leaves.  These  brown- 
faced  youngsters,  peering  shyly  curious  from 
among  bush  and  bracken,  were  to  him  but  part 
and  parcel  of  the  great  stream  of  Nature's 
life  around  him.  They  were  young  enough 
to   have   no   conscious    separation   from   it. 


The  Recluse  311 

They  took  hunger  and  sleepiness  in  the  natural 
course  of  things,  neither  denying  the  one 
nor  combating  the  other.  He  saw  in  them 
merely  young  animals,  unselfconscious  though 
shy  of  the  unknown:  in  this  case  of  himself. 
It  was  with  your  grown  man  that,  for  the  most 
part,  he  knew  himself  in  lack  of  sympathy; 
those  who  neither  consciously  nor  uncon- 
sciously accept  Nature  as  their  mistress,  nor 
see  their  own  lordship  of  her:  those  who  grum- 
ble and  carp  at  her  decrees,  master  neither  of 
her  nor  of  themselves. 

In  this  mastery  alone  he  saw  full  freedom  of 
spirit.  I  have  told  you  that  he  worshipped 
Nature;  that  she  was  his  mistress.  This  is 
true.  But  it  was  the  worship  a  man  gives  to 
the  woman  who  is  his  mate  as  well  as  his 
goddess;  who  knows  himself  her  lord  even 
while  he  does  her  willing  homage. 

One  night,  standing  before  his  cabin  door,  he 
surveyed  the  stars.  The  air  was  still  and 
frosty:  the  quiet  of  the  sleeping  forest  lay 
around  him.     This  was  the  hour  he  felt  his 


312  The  Jester 

own  most  fully;  himself  awake,  alive,  while 
Nature  slept.  Even  the  trees  were  wrapt  to 
slumber,  very  motionless,  their  bare  branches 
darkly  outlined  against  the  luminous  sky. 
There  was  no  moon:  among  the  brighter  stars 
the  Milky  Way  flung  her  whitely  powdered 
track,  a  far-off  illimitable  path.  Immensity 
around  him,  his  soul  winged  dauntless  out  to  it. 

Suddenly  he  came  back  to  earth,  very  alert, 
on  the  scent  of  an  intruder.  You  would 
have  declared  all  around  to  be  silent,  still  as 
the  grave:  Oswald  stood  with  head  bent, 
listening  intently.  The  minutes  passed :  from 
far  off  came  the  lightest  stirring  of  the  under- 
growth, a  mere  rustle  as  of  the  faintest 
breath  of  wind.  Muscles  tensioned,  Oswald 
raised  his  head,  looked  towards  the  place 
whence  the  sound  had  come.  Now  it  grew 
more  distinct;  there  was  the  snapping  of  a 
twig.  Suddenly  from  among  the  trees  stepped 
a  tall  man,  dark-cloaked.  The  two  confronted 
each  other,  hostile  for  the  moment. 

Oswald  broke  the  silence,  since  truly  it  be- 
hooved one  of  them  to  break  it. 


The  Recluse  313 

"Who  are  you?  "  he  asked,  putting  the  most 
natural  question,  and  the  one  that  came  readi- 
est to  his  tongue. 

"One,  Peregrine, "  replied  the  intruder. 
"Truly  an'  you  are  surprised  to  see  me,  which 
I  take  it  you  be,  I  am  none  less  surprised  to 
see  you.     Are  you  spirit  or  mortal?  " 

"Very  much  mortal,"  returned  Oswald 
laughing.  "And  mortal  enough  to  be  frankly 
startled  by  your  appearance.  I  look  not  for 
wayfarers  so  far  afield,  and  at  this  hour. " 

Peregrine  gazed  around  him.  In  the  moon- 
light he  saw  the  cabin;  a  rough  place  enough, 
built  of  logs  and  wattles. 

"You  live  here?"  he  asked  wondering. 

"  I  do.  An'  you  would  have  rest  and  shelter 
you  are  welcome  to  what  I  can  offer  you. " 

"I  accept  your  offer  gladly,"  said  Pere- 
grine. "I  have  walked  far  enough  for  the 
nonce, — over  far  for  that  matter. " 

"Then  the  sooner  you  come  to  a  halt  the 
better,"  returned  Oswald.  And  he  led  the 
way  within  the  cabin. 

For  all  its  roughness  it  was  clean  and  fresh- 


314  The  Jester 

smelling,  holding  a  scent  of  peat,  bracken, 
and  dried  herbs,  which  latter  dangled  in 
bunches  from  a  string  across  one  corner.  A 
peat  fire  lighted  the  place  dimly,  flinging  great 
shadows  on  the  log  walls. 

"Sit  you  there,"  said  Oswald,  pointing  to  a 
heap  of  bracken;  and  forthwith  busied  him- 
self with  the  preparation  of  food. 

Ere  long  he  had  it  ready, — crushed  corn 
mixed  with  goat's  milk  and  boiled  to  a  smooth 
paste,  sweetened  with  honey.  He  ladled  it 
steaming  from  an  iron  pot  into  two  bowls 
fashioned  from  the  dried  and  seasoned  rind 
of  a  pumpkin.  Peregrine  wolfed  it  down ;  you 
could  see  he  brought  hunger  to  it  as  a  very 
excellent  sauce.  For  drink,  Oswald  made  a 
beverage  from  herbs  of  his  own  gathering,  a 
dark  brew  but  not  unpalatable.  Anon,  filled 
and  rested,  Peregrine  gave  vent  to  a  great  sigh. 

"That,"  he  said,  "was  exceeding  welcome. 
You  saw  me  pretty  near  the  end  of  my 
tether. " 

Oswald  nodded.  "So  I  fancied.  You  had 
been  journeying  long?" 


The  Recluse  315 

"It's  five  months  or  thereabouts  since  I 
found  myself  beneath  a  roof.  You  lose  track 
of  time  with  naught  but  the  look  of  the  fields 
to  guide  you." 

"An*  you  trust  to  so  scant  guidance  you 
may  find  yourself  sadly  astray,"  returned 
Oswald.  "I  keep  count  with  these  tallies." 
He  lifted  a  bundle  of  twelve  hazel  rods  from  a 
corner.  One  was  notched  the  whole  length, 
another  but  half  way. 

"From  your  marking  I  judge  us  to  be  now 
near  the  middle  of  February,"  said  Peregrine 
eyeing  the  bundle. 

"You  judge  correctly;  the  sixteenth  day  to 
be  accurate." 

"I  had  thought  it  earlier." 

"That  is  where  your  mere  observation  of 
the  fields  makes  bad  guess-work,  since  the 
weather  has  a  hand  in  the  reckoning, "  quoth 
Oswald  calmly.  "Take  to  my  method.  A 
tally  a  month  will  suffice  you  to  carry 
around,  and  a  notch  in  the  outer  side  of  the 
next  one  to  mark  the  casting  away  of  the 
last." 


316  The  Jester 

"No  bad  idea, "  returned  Peregrine.  And 
a  silence  fell. 

Oswald  watched  him.  He  was  quick  to  read 
slight  tokens  anywhere,  whether  of  character 
in  a  man's  face,  or  the  hint  of  weather's  change 
in  sky,  wind,  or  flower.  He  saw  him  a  man 
not  wholly  content  with  life,  yet  not  fully 
aware  of  the  fact  himself.  He  saw  in  him 
something  of  an  anomaly, — a  dreamer  without 
a  dream,  a  traveller  without  a  goal.  This 
is  unsatisfactory  an'  Nature  has  made  of  you  a 
dreamer;  Fate,  or  yourself,  thrust  you  forth 
to  travel. 

"Whither  were  you  faring  when  you 
chanced  on  this  place?"  he  asked  presently. 

"Nowhere,"  returned  Peregrine.  "Once 
having  a  goal  in  view,  which  I  found  on  nearer 
approach  to  be  pure  moonshine,  I  sought  no 
other.     I  wander  now  where  fancy  leads  me." 

Oswald  shook  his  head.  "Fancy  is  too 
moody  a  jade  for  my  guide.  At  times  she 
leads  in  hot  haste  with  no  consideration  for 
him  who  follows.  At  times  she  stays  moping, 
forcing  a  man  to  idle  in  one  spot  at  her  will." 


The  Recluse  3*7 

At  this  Peregrine  demurred.  "I  see  her 
will  and  mine  in  accord, "  quoth  he. 

Oswald  laughed,  denying  the  argument 
firmly.  "You  may  think  so,  but  'tis  not  the 
case.  An'  you  take  her  for  guide,  you  have  no 
will  in  the  matter,  or  rather,  make  it  sub- 
servient to  hers.  An'  a  man  use  his  own 
will,  he  makes  a  slave  of  fancy. "  He  paused 
a  moment,  then  continued.  "How  know  you 
your  goal  mere  moonshine  ?    Did  you  gain  it  ?  " 

"Near  enough  to  know  it  non-existent, 
naught  but  a  fancy  of  the  brain." 

Oswald  moved  impatiently.  "There  you 
are  back  at  your  fancy.  I  told  you  she  was  no 
good  guide." 

"In  this  case  she  was  not  of  my  own  seek- 
ing." 

' '  You  speak  in  riddles, ' '  said  Oswald.  ' '  You 
may  think  me  over-blunt,  but,  if  a  man  speak 
in  riddles,  methinks  he  has  little  to  tell.  Fact 
will  bear  plain  words  and  close  handling. " 

Peregrine  looked  at  him.  He  was  not  dis- 
pleased with  his  blunt ness.  He  saw  in  him 
one  who  came  to  a  grip  with  matters.     May- 


318  The  Jester 

hap,  he  lost  hold  on  a  part  of  what  he  gripped 
at,  since  a  man's  grasp  is  not  over-large; 
nevertheless  he  saw  him  making  sure  of  what 
he  grasped. 

"You  shall  have  the  story  plainly,'*  said 
Peregrine.     And  forthwith  gave  it  to  him. 

On  the  conclusion  Oswald  made  no  answer, 
but  remained  half -musing.  When  at  last  he 
spoke  it  was  as  though  he  conferred  with 
himself. 

"I  too  have  had  glimpse  of  the  woman  you 
seek.  I,  too,  sought  her,  moved  Heaven  and 
Earth  and  Hell  to  that  end,  and  came  no 
nearer  finding  her.  Now  frankly,  I  know  not 
whether  she  is  mortal  or  spirit.  This  much  I 
know  truly:  she  is  no  fancy  as  you  have  said. 
Spirit  she  may  be,  and  probably  is,  though 
I  still  give  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  to  her 
mortal  nature, — if  the  doubt  be  benefit. 
Of  that  I  am  none  too  sure.  This  further 
conclusion  I  have  come  to  also ;  she  is  not  to  be 
found  for  all  our  seeking.  An'  she  come  again 
willingly, — mortal  or  spirit, — as  she  came 
once  in  glimpse,  'twill  be  her  affair,  not  ours. 


The  Recluse  319 

For  my  part,  I  dwell  in  my  memory  of  her. 
That  she  is  existent  suffices  me.  I  seek  no 
further  knowledge  of  her  save  at  her  own 
will."  He  stopped.  Then  a  moment  later 
he  continued.  "I  see  her  eyes  in  the  moonlit 
pools  of  the  forest;  her  purple  veil  in  the 
spreading  of  the  twilight ;  her  presence  in  the 
quiet  of  the  night.  This  much  my  momentary 
sight  of  her  has  given  me,  and  for  the  gift  I  am 
thankful." 

"Then  you  hold  the  sight  no  illusion?" 
asked  Peregrine. 

"None,"  said  Oswald  calmly.  "I  will  put 
the  matter  plainly.  An'  a  blind  man  be 
restored  to  sight  at  sundown,  he  may  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  sun  as  it  sinks  behind  the  hills. 
The  morning  may  dawn  cloudy ;  and  through- 
out the  day,  and  even  succeeding  days,  he  may 
get  no  sight  of  its  further  glory.  But  it  was  no 
illusion  that  he  had  seen  it,  and  will  see  it 
again  when  the  clouds  disperse.  But  he  can 
have  no  more  hand  in  dispersing  the  clouds, 
than  he  can  have  in  changing  the  course  of  the 
sun  behind  them.      There's  the  matter  as  I 


320  The  Jester 

take  it.  You  may  journey  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  world,  and  come  no  nearer  her. 
You  must  wait  her  own  coming  again. " 

Peregrine  thought  awhile;  found  a  certain 
solace  in  Oswald's  words.     At  length  he  spoke. 

"Yet  the  boy  saw  her.  And  I,  though 
present,  saw  her  not. " 

"That  bears  out  my  thought  that  she  is 
spirit/ '  said  Oswald,  "but  does  not  prove  her 
fancy.  Though  doubtless  you  rubbed  illu- 
sion well  into  the  child's  mind. " 

Peregrine  was  silent.  Shame  struck  on 
him. 

"Having  ever  held  her  purely  material  you 
were  like  to  do  so,"  said  Oswald  calmly. 
"You  were  less  actually  blameworthy  than 
over  precipitate.  Since  I  hold  her  to  be  spirit 
you  were  probably  beyond  the  range  of  sight 
of  her.  I  do  not  say  this  of  a  surety  since  I 
hold  that  sight  of  her  comes  at  her  will  rather 
than  ours;  but  I  do  say,  that  had  man  or  child 
given  me  as  great  proof  of  knowledge  of  her 
as  yon  child  gave  you,  I  had  followed  most 
closely  in  his  steps,  seen  eye  to  eye  with  him 


The  Recluse  321 

as  near  as  might  be.  On  your  own  showing 
you  stood  far  from  him. " 

Peregrine  was  still  silent.  He  felt  himself 
more  than  fool. 

Oswald  eyed  him  kindly.  "Do  not  be 
downcast,  man.  There's  no  mother's  son  of 
us  but  blunders  once  — aye,  often  more  than 
once,  and  that,  perchance,  within  a  foot  of  our 
goal.  Recognizing  that,  there's  humiliation 
to  add  to  the  wounds  and  fatigue  of  the  jour- 
ney. This,  bringing  discouragement,  makes 
acquiescence  in  failure  the  easier  course. 
'Tis  the  coward's  outlook.  Face  the  matter 
again.  In  this  case  I  say,  take  courage;  be- 
lieve in  her,  and  await  her  coming. " 

The  words  brought  comfort  to  Peregrine. 
He  looked  gratefully  at  his  mentor.  You 
might  have  seen  trust  in  his  eyes.  The 
personality  and  confidence  of  the  man  gave 
him  strength. 

"An'  you  take  my  advice,"  said  Oswald, 
"you  will  sleep  now.  New  hope  comes  with 
the  morning." 

He  showed  him  a  bed  of  bracken,  made  him 

21 


322  The  Jester 

lie  down.     Then  himself  laid  down  at  the 
other  side  of  the  cabin. 

It  was  long  before  Peregrine  slept.  Thoughts 
pursued  each  other  pell-mell  through  his  brain, 
one  alone  predominant  and  lasting  enough  to 
grasp,  namely,  that  in  his  host  he  had  found 
comprehension  of  the  matter  that  absorbed 
him,  and  sanity  combined.  This  thought  at 
length  brought  him  rest.  An  hour  or  so  before 
daybreak  he  slept. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


IN  THE  FOREST 


J\  AORNING  brought  refreshment,  and  with 
it  new  hope  and  courage  as  Oswald  had 
foretold.     At  breakfast  he  put  a  proposal  to 
Peregrine  frankly  enough. 

"  An*  you  are  so  minded,  why  not  bide  with 
me  a  time.  Men  term  me  a  recluse,  and  so 
in  a  measure  I  am,  rinding  little  congenial  in 
the  majority  of  mankind.  I  should  find  no 
constraint  in  your  presence.  We  could  talk 
when  the  mood  was  on  us,  and — better  test 
of  congeniality — keep  silence  when  we  willed. 
Have  you  mind  to  try  the  partnership  for  a 
while?" 

Peregrine  gave  willing  assent.  Already,  as 
seen,  he  had  found  rest  in  the  man's  confid- 
ence, a  healthfulness  in  his  quiet  sanity.  He 
saw  a  haven  in  the  forest  cabin,  one  where  he 

323 


324  The  Jester 

would  abide  most  gladly.  To  have  no  fear  of 
going  a  day,  or  even  more,  hungry  was  some- 
thing of  a  novelty  to  him.  The  search  for  food 
sharpens  a  man's  wits  with  regard  to  attain- 
ing the  necessities  of  life,  but  leaves  less  room 
for  the  development  of  other  faculties.  Here 
was  sufficient  for  the  needs  of  the  body.  His 
mind  at  rest  on  this  score,  it  began  to  expand 
in  other  directions.  His  love  of  Nature  re- 
turned to  him,  as  it  had  returned  for  a  brief 
space  on  his  leaving  Dieuporte.  In  this  re- 
newal of  his  love  he  realized  how  long  it  had 
been  absent. 

Tracing  his  way  slowly  backwards,  he  came 
to  the  point  where  the  love  had  first  waned; 
saw  it  in  his  absorption  in  the  human,  namely 
Isabel.  Up  to  this  point  there  had  been 
freedom  of  spirit;  here  he  first  saw  his  bond- 
age, realized  himself  enslaved;  slave  of  the 
woman  at  Belisle;  slave  of  luxury  at  Castle 
Syrtes;  slave  of  Menippus;  and,  lastly,  slave 
of  an  idea.  In  this  last  he  was,  however, 
none  so  certain  of  the  bondage ;  of  the  former 
slavery  he  was  very  sure. 


In  the  Forest  325 

Now  he  felt  his  spirit  free.  The  intimacy 
of  Nature  again  surrounded  him;  he  found 
sweetness  in  her  breath;  in  her  still,  sunny 
days,  despite  their  cold;  in  her  frosty,  star- 
lit nights.  He  found  himself  watching  the 
brown  buds  slowly  swelling  on  the  trees,  gaz- 
ing with  something  akin  to  reverence  at  the 
first  pale  primrose  lifting  a  shy  face  among 
last  year's  withered  debris,  touching  the  tiny 
fragile  flower  of  the  wood  sorrel.  The  clean 
healthiness  of  the  forest  absorbed  him;  his 
spirit  was  at  one  with  the  tender  life  awaking 
around  him. 

A  new  idea  came  to  him  now.  Up  to 
a  point  he  acquiesced  with  Oswald  in  the 
thought  that  the  woman  would  make  herself 
known  to  them  at  her  own  time;  yet  he  saw 
himself  fitting  his  spirit  for  the  meeting.  In 
this  he  believed  himself  in  a  measure  seeking 
her.  You  see  him  humble ;  no  longer  hot  afoot 
to  the  chase  in  his  own  way,  striving  to  attain 
to  her  by  the  force  of  his  own  will.  He  never 
for  an  instant  lost  sight  on  the  thought  of  her. 
Now  and  again  he  fancied  her  eyes  watching 


326  The  Jester 

him;  prayed  her  then  humbly  enough  to  make 
her  presence  known  at  her  own  time. 

Oswald,  half  laughing,  told  him  he  held  her 
so  close  in  thought  no  sight  of  her  was  needed 
to  him  now.  To  which  Peregrine  replied 
briefly: 

"  Belief  in  her  may  be  good ;  but  sight  of  her 
will  be  better." 

In  his  belief  he  now  surpassed  his  one-time 
mentor.  He  looked  daily, — even  moment- 
arily,— to  her  appearance,  where  Oswald  was 
content  to  leave  it  at  months  or  even  years 
ahead.  It  was  sufficient  to  him  that  she  ex- 
isted. The  mere  knowledge,  without  perpet- 
ual watching,  was  not  enough  for  Peregrine. 

He  saw  too  great  passivity  of  mind  in 
Oswald.  Though  in  a  measure  he  recognized 
its  excellence,  his  own  spirit  was  a-tingle  for 
greater  action.  The  man's  quiet  certainty 
of  the  woman's  existence  was  at  once  an 
anodyne  and  an  irritant  to  him.  While 
Oswald's  belief  quickened  his  own  belief,  he 
yet  saw  something  lukewarm  in  his  lack  of 
action.     This  Oswald  guessed  at,  rather  by 


In  the  Forest  327 

intuition  than  by  actual  spoken  word  from 
Peregrine.  For  his  part,  he  saw  a  certain 
weakness  in  Peregrine's  constant  expectancy. 
He  watched  him  walking  alert  in  the  forest, 
his  eyes  roving  from  side  to  side. 

"I  have  told  you, "  he  said  once  quietly, 
"that  effort  on  your  part  is  useless.  She 
will  come  at  her  own  time. " 

"Truly  you  say  so, "  returned  Peregrine, 
"and  at  the  first  I  had  confidence  in  your 
assurance.  Now,  I  know  not  fully  how  to 
make  my  meaning  clear;  but  to  my  thinking 
she  bids  me  still  seek  her;  awaits  a  further 
effort  on  my  part. " 

Oswald  smiled.  "There  imagination  has 
you  in  thrall.  On  your  own  showing  you 
have  pursued  her  long  without  avail.  Rest 
in  her  spirit  which  you  know  around  you,  and 
await  sight  of  her  quietly  as  I  do.  Your 
constant  expectancy  of  her  coming  brings  dis- 
quietude to  your  mind. " 

Reasonable  enough  argument,  and  yet  one 
which  Peregrine  could  not  bring  himself  fully 
to  accept. 


328  The  Jester 

"Look  at  the  matter  dispassionately,' ' 
said  Oswald.  "You  dreamed  the  existence 
of  this  woman.  Knowing  not  whether  the 
dream  were  truth  or  reality,  you  pursued 
her  for  over  two  years.  The  pursuit  brought 
with  it  disappointment,  and  worse.  Now  I  tell 
you  of  a  certainty  your  dream  was  true,  and 
show  you  the  means  by  which  the  truth  shall 
become  fact  to  you.  In  seeking  her,  in  your 
constant  watching  for  her,  you  drive  her  from 
you.  I  know  not  why  this  is  so;  nevertheless 
I  know  it  to  be  true. " 

Peregrine  was  silent.  Here  was  apparent 
certainty  presented  to  him  on  the  one  hand; 
as  the  pull  against  it  was  his  own  inner  con- 
viction, which  he  had  yet  more  than  once 
proved  illusion,  so  it  seemed.  For  the  time 
he  let  the  matter  be;  came  again  to  rest 
in  the  strength  of  his  comradeship,  and  the 
sweetness  of  Nature  round  him. 

So  the  days  passed.  March  came  with 
strong  clean  winds  blowing  through  the  forest, 
with  daffodils  tossing  golden  heads  by  brook- 
sides,  a  very  wealth  of  gladness.     With  her 


In  the  Forest  329 

passing  came  quieter  April  bringing  sunshine 
and  rain,  and  the  scent  of  growing  things  in 
the  forest.  The  birds  mated  and  sang;  the 
whole  place  was  alive  and  buoyant. 

One  night  Peregrine  awakened  suddenly. 
At  the  first  waking  he  fancied  Oswald  to  have 
called  to  him,  but  his  quiet  regular  breathing 
showed  him  sleeping.  Peregrine  raised  him- 
self on  his  elbow  and  looked  around. 

The  faintest  grey  light  fell  through  the 
square  opening  which  served  as  window.  He 
sank  back  prepared  for  further  sleep,  when  on 
a  sudden  he  found  himself  more  fully  awake. 
He  sat  up,  and  again  looked  round  the  hut. 
The  bunches  of  herbs  dangling  from  their 
string  looked  ghostly  in  the  grey  light .  Oswald , 
lying  on  a  bed  of  bracken,  slept  soundly. 

Peregrine  got  up  from  his  couch,  donned  his 
clothes,  barely  conscious  that  he  did  so.  His 
mind  was  busily  astir;  though  as  yet  his 
thoughts  had  found  no  conscious  articulation. 
Being  clad,  he  took  a  chunk  of  bread  from  a 
shelf.     This  much  he  knew  his  host  would 


33°  The  Jester 

have  freely  given  him.     Then  he  moved  softly 
to  the  door,  opened  it. 

The  forest  lay  in  the  quiet  which  reigns 
most  supremely  betwixt  night  and  dawn. 
For  some  moments  he  stood  looking  towards 
the  great  trees,  then  stepped  without,  closed 
the  door  softly  behind  him. 

Now,  an'  you  were  to  ask  me  for  reasons  as 
to  why  Peregrine  left  the  hut  at  this  very  mo- 
ment, I  must  e'en  tell  you  frankly  that  where 
fifty  instincts  urged  him  to  the  move  there  was 
no  one  definite  reason.  This  may  seem  folly ; 
but  verily,  to  my  thinking,  there  are  moments 
in  a  man's  life  when  he  does  better  to  obey 
the  lightest  instinct  than  the  closest  reasoning. 
We  are  come  now  to  a  time  in  our  Jester's 
wanderings  when  I  see  myself  penning  that 
which  actually  befell  him,  rather  than  the 
thoughts  which  led  him  to  action.  It  may 
be  that  you  will  guess  at  those  thoughts, 
having  had  some  such  of  your  own.  An'  you 
cannot  trace  them  in  his  actions,  I  see  not  any 
words  of  mine  setting  them  clearly  before  you. 


In  the  Forest  331 

Having  put  some  half-dozen  miles  or  so 
between  himself  and  the  hut,  he  began  to  feel 
sleepy.  Coming  to  a  mossy  stretch  beneath 
a  great  oak,  he  lay  down.  Three  minutes  saw 
him  wrapped  in  slumber,  and  he  slept  soundly. 

When  he  awakened  it  was  high  noon.  The 
sun  fell  through  the  oak  branches,  clear  upon 
the  place  where  he  lay.  For  a  time  longer 
he  rested,  revelling  in  the  warmth  of  its  beams. 
Anon  he  sat  up ;  ate  a  portion  of  the  bread  he 
had  brought  with  him.  All  around  him  was 
intensely  still.  Before  him  were  massed  blue- 
bells, a  soft  luminous  carpet.  Brilliant  nearer 
him,  they  lost  themselves  anon  in  the  hazy 
distances  among  the  trees.  He  sat  a  while 
gazing  at  them. 

He  wandered  through  the  forest  that  day;  at 
night  made  it  his  resting  place. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

EASTER    EVE    AND    EASTER    MORNING 

CARLY  the  next  morning  Peregrine  was 
again  afoot.  Coming  at  length  from 
among  the  trees,  he  found  himself  on  a  hill- 
side. Below  him  was  a  hamlet,  a  small  clus- 
ter of  some  dozen  or  so  cottages  nestling  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill.  Later,  an'  he  would,  he 
might  seek  food  at  one  of  them;  at  the  moment 
he  had  bread  sufficient  to  stay  hunger,  and 
had  little  mind  to  find  himself  again  in  the 
company  of  men. 

Partly  descending  the  hill,  he  sat  down 
beneath  a  thorn-bush,  looking  on  the  land- 
scape spread  below  him.  Sounds  of  life  came 
to  him  on  the  quiet  air ;  here  was  the  clarion 
note  of  a  cock,  the  bark  of  a  dog,  the  lowing 
of  cows,  and  the  tinkle  of  a  bell  at  the  neck  of 
some  goat. 

332 


Easter  Eve  and  Easter  Morning  333 

The  time  passed  pleasantly  enough  beneath 
the  thorn-bush.  He  found  himself  in  no  mood 
to  desert  his  post.  Dreamily  he  watched 
the  shifting  lights  and  shadows  in  the  valley, 
and  on  the  hills  beyond. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  brought  him  again 
to  the  present.  He  looked  up.  Almost  op- 
posite to  him  were  a  boy  and  girl,  the  boy 
ten  years  old  or  thereabouts,  the  girl  some 
three  years  younger.  Her  brown  hair  was 
covered  with  a  purple  hood;  a  dress  of  the 
same  colour  fell  to  her  ankles ;  a  white  kerchief 
was  folded  about  her  neck;  her  arms  were  full 
of  bluebells.  The  boy,  a  sturdy  fellow,  clad 
in  green  tunic  and  hose,  and  having  a  brown 
cap  on  his  head,  held  a  great  sheaf  of  cherry 
blossom.  Peregrine  straightway  thought  of 
Pippo. 

Coming  to  a  halt  they  gazed  at  him,  round- 
eyed,  astonished  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger. 

"Good-day,"  quoth  Peregrine  smiling  at 
their  astonishment. 

"  Good-day, "  echoed  the  boy.  The  girl  re- 
mained mute ;  a  very  shy  maiden. 


334  The  Jester 

"You  are  well  laden,"  said  Peregrine. 

The  boy  glanced  at  his  burden.  "We  take 
them  to  the  church  yonder."  He  nodded 
leftwards  up  the  hill. 

Peregrine  half  turned ;  saw  what  had  before 
escaped  his  notice,  a  small  grey  church  on 
the  hillside,  set  on  the  edge  of  the  forest. 

"You  carry  a  fair  tribute  thither,"  quoth 
he. 

"'Tis  Easter  Eve,"  said  the  boy  bluntly. 

"Oh!"  breathed  Peregrine.  The  syllable 
showing  him  ignorant  of  the  fact,  the  children 
eyed  him  puzzled.  How  should  the  passing 
of  the  Solemn  Week  have  escaped  him  unob- 
served? This  is  what  their  glances  asked, 
though  they  found  no  words. 

"She  takes  bluebells,"  said  the  boy,  nod- 
ding towards  the  girl.  "She  says  Christ  must 
surely  love  them,  since  they  are  the  colour  of 
His  Mother's  robe.  I  climbed  for  my  cherry 
blossom." 

Here  Peregrine  saw  Pippo  again.  His  mouth 
curved  to  smile,  though  memory  brought 
a  lurking  sadness  to  his  eyes. 


Easter  Eve  and  Easter  Morning   335 

Finding  no  further  speech  come  handy,  the 
boy  turned  to  the  girl. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "Father  Felix  bade  us 
be  betimes." 

Together  they  wended  their  way  up  the 
hillside.  Peregrine  looked  after  them,  and 
towards  the  church. 

The  sun  had  fallen  behind  the  forest,  leav- 
ing it  purple-blue  against  a  rosy  sky  toning 
upwards  to  lilac  and  grey.  The  air  was  alive 
and  fragrant  with  the  breath  of  spring.  A 
thrush  sang  in  an  elm  tree  set  close  against  the 
church. 

Father  Felix  was  sitting  on  a  bench  in  front 
of  a  cottage  door.  This  was  the  priest's 
house,  and  was  hard  by  the  church.  Since 
you  have  met  Father  Felix  before,  though 
in  other  guise,  I  refrain  from  present  de- 
scription of  him.  His  eyes,  looking  towards 
the  reflection  from  the  sunset,  reflected  some- 
thing of  its  calm.  You  see  him  musing  on 
matters  well  loved  by  him. 

Anon  bringing  his  eyes  from  the  sky,   a 


336  The  Jester 

thought  nearer  earth,  he  became  aware  of  a 
tall  man  standing  near  him.  Looking  at  him, 
he  saw  in  him  a  stranger. 

"I  give  you  good-evening,  sir,"  he  said. 

" Good-evening,* '  responded  Peregrine. 

"You  are,  I  fancy,  a  stranger  in  these 
parts,"  said  Father  Felix. 

"I  am, "  returned  Peregrine  briefly. 

Here  conversation  seemed  like  to  come  to  a 
halt.  A  frank  response  with  nothing  added  to 
it  brings  matters  to  a  greater  standstill  than 
a  shifty  answer  will  bring  them.  The  last 
case  leaves  room  for  probing;  the  first  makes 
further  query  appear  sheer  curiosity. 

Father  Felix  surveyed  him  with  kindly  blue 
eyes;  Peregrine  returned  the  glance  with  eyes 
no  less  blue. 

"Have  you  come  from  far?"  asked  Father 
Felix,  blinking  towards  the  sunset  reflection 
in  the  eastern  sky.  Yet,  for  all  his  blinking, 
methinks  he  saw  a  good  deal. 

"Recently  from  the  forest,"  said  Peregrine. 
"I  have  been  dwelling  there  some  weeks 
past." 


Easter  Eve  and  Easter  Morning   337 

The  old  man  smiled.  "Then  you  are  a  bit 
of  a  hermit  like  myself.  Will  you  not  be 
seated? "  He  moved  slightly  on  the  bench;  at 
the  same  time  indicated  a  tree  stump  near 
him,  thereby  giving  a  choice  of  seats.  Pere- 
grine chose  the  tree  stump. 

"And  before  the  forest?"  asked  Father 
Felix.  "That  is  if  you  will  see  interest  rather 
than  curiosity  in  my  queries?" 

"Before  the  forest  I  was  a  wanderer,"  re- 
turned Peregrine.  Then  he  pushed  back  the 
hood  of  his  cloak,  threw  it  somewhat  from 
his  shoulders.  "You  see  in  me  an  outcaste 
fool."  There  was  a  faint  ring  of  challenge 
in  the  words. 

"Hmm,"  mused  Father  Felix  gently,  his 
eyes  twinkling.  "A  fool  by  whose  standard? 
An  outcaste  from  what  company?  Methinks 
there  lies  the  test  as  to  whether  the  title 
with  which  you  have  branded  yourself  may 
not  be  a  badge  of  glory  rather  than  of 
shame. " 

Peregrine  looked  straight  before  him.  "A 
fool  by  the  standard  of  men,  and  by  mine  own. 


338  The  Jester 

An  outcaste  from  the  Court  where  I  played 
the  fool." 

"  Since  you  judge  yourself  a  fool  by  your 
own  standard,  you  are  assuredly  in  the  way 
of  becoming  something  greater,''  said  Father 
Felix  quietly.  "For  the  standard  of  men,  I 
pay  not  over  much  heed  to  that  measure  when 
applied  to  their  fellow-mortals.  As  to  the 
matter  of  outcaste,"  he  looked  at  him  very 
straightly,  "an*  you  be  not  outcaste  from  God, 
I  see  in  the  business  less  of  a  boggle  than  you 
perchance  see." 

"An'  I  were  an  outcaste  from  Him?" 
queried  Peregrine  very  low. 

"Then,  my  son,  the  quicker  you  set  about 
returning  to  Him  the  better,"  quoth  Father 
Felix  briskly. 

A  silence  fell  on  these  words.  If  Peregrine 
had  answer  to  make  it  was  at  the  moment  no 
verbal  one.  The  old  man  having  said  his 
say  let  the  matter  bide.  The  light  in  the  sky 
faded,  cooled  to  a  pale  blue-grey  very  restful  to 
contemplate.  A  star  came  out  over  the  forest. 
Big  and  luminous  it  hung  in  the  clear  space. 


Easter  Eve  and  Easter  Morning   339 

Anon  Peregrine  roused  himself. 

"I  bid  you  good-evening, "  he  said. 

The  old  man  looked  at  him,  seemed  about 
to  speak,  checked  the  words  on  his  lips,  gave 
1 '  Good-evening ' '  in  response.  Peregrine  went 
down  the  hill. 

Coming  again  to  the  thorn-bush,  he  halted 
irresolute,  made  half  turn  to  retrace  his  steps. 
He  denied  the  impulse;  sat  down  once  more 
beneath  the  thorn-bush. 

Night  crept  slowly  onward,  spreading  her 
dusky  mantle  over  the  valley.  At  the  foot 
of  the  hills  it  was  intensely  dark,  yet  with  a 
soft  darkness  as  of  velvet.  The  night  itself 
was  softly  velvet;  grey  velvet  above  the  hills, 
star-sprinkled.  Sirius  faced  him  in  a  dip 
between  them,  blinking  now  fire-red,  now 
green.  No  moon  being  visible,  the  stars  shone 
with  a  greater  radiance. 

Around  and  about  him  was  intense  silence. 
The  earth  was  caught  to  slumber.  Himself 
wakeful,  he  sat  immovable,  motionless  as  the 
thorn-bush  by  which  he  rested.     His  spirit 


34°  The  Jester 

winged  into  the  vast  spaces,  ranged  in  circles, 
returning  ever  to  one  point.  Staying  a  mo- 
ment there,  it  went  forth  again,  sent  by  his 
own  will,  since  he  was  reluctant  to  allow  it 
permission  to  this  resting-place. 

At  length  his  spirit  grew  weary  of  the  flight. 
"I  have  sought,"  she  said  to  him,  "and  here 
is  my  sole  haven.  Let  me  rest  now. "  Here, 
clearly,  were  the  words  she  spoke.  How  send 
her  forth  again  upon  a  barren  errand?  How 
bid  her  seek  fruitlessly  afar  that  which  lay  so 
near  to  hand?  His  will  withdrew  from  the 
guarded  sanctuary.  Wings  folded,  his  spirit 
came  to  harbourage. 

The  night  wore  on.  A  pale  light  in  the 
east  heralded  the  coming  dawn.  He  rose 
from  beneath  the  thorn-bush,  turned  up  the 
hill. 

Within  the  church  was  nearly  utter  dark- 
ness ;  only  the  one  red  light  glowed  as  it  glows 
wherever  Christ  reigns  hidden  in  the  Sacred 
Host. 

Father  Felix  rose  from  near  the  altar,  came 
down  the  aisle  to  meet  him.     His  eyes  were 


Easter  Eve  and  Easter  Morning   341 

heavy  with  foregone  sleep,  yet  bright  with  an 
immense  happiness. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,"  he  said. 

An  hour  later  Peregrine  knelt  before  the 
flower-decked  altar.  Through  the  open  door 
of  the  church  the  dawn  showed  purple  beyond 
the  hills.  The  sun,  coming  up  above  them, 
shot  golden  beams  into  the  place,  falling  upon 
the  Crucifix  set  among  bluebells  and  snow- 
white  cherry  blossom. 

Peregrine  raised  his  head.  Kneeling  near 
him  he  saw  the  Woman  he  had  sought,  looked 
straight  into  her  deep  eyes.  .  .  .  For  all  his 
joy  in  her  presence  it  was  submerged  in  the 
knowledge  of  One  Who  had  brought  him  to 
sight  of  her. 

Father  Felix,  turning  from  the  door  of  the 
sacristy,  looked  momentarily  at  the  kneel- 
ing man.  Beyond  him,  he  saw  the  sun  risen 
above  the  blue  hills. 


THE  END. 


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In  a  moment  of  reminiscent  detachment  the 
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had  wedded  to  the  roads,  the  highways  and 
hedges,  the  fields  and  woods.  Once  Cupid  had 
touched  him  with  his  wing — the  merest  flick 
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self wounded.  Later  when  he  looked  for  the 
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Here  is  a  rare  love  story,  that  breathes  of 
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Mrs.  Barclay's  new  story  opens  with  the 
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sence of  ten  years.  Ten  years  before,  Rodney 
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an  honorable  man  in  a  tight  place,  and  the 
girl  he  loved  and  trusted  had  turned  on  him 
within  a  week  of  the  day  which  was  to 
make  her  altogether  his.  Ten  years,  how. 
ever,  have  not  quenced  the  altar  fires  of 
his  affection  and —  But  it  would  be  unfair 
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Besides  the  intense  love  interest  the  story 
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A  tale  of  the  northern  woods  that  breathes 
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great  forests  and  the  thrilling  "  drive  "  of  the 
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and  just  in  time  to  avert  disaster.  Yet  redress 
he  must  forego,  for  the  man  who  has  attempted 
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The  Swindler 

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The  glow  of  romance  kindles  in  the 
new  volume  by  this  successful  author. 
The  tale  entitled  The  Swindler  and  its 
sequel,  jointly  constituting  a  substantial 
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soul-filling  note  which  is  not  diminished 
in  the  shorter  but  no  less  dramatic  stories 
which  follow.  The  Swindler  is  the  story 
of  one  who,  irredeemably  bad  in  the  eyes 
of  the  undiscerning,  has  all  the  latent 
nobility  of  his  nature  called  into  play 
through  the  faith  which  is  reposed  in  him 
by  the  one  woman  who  counts. 

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